Peanut butter ran out. Cat ran off. Voices came from a hollow skull. Poor Igor. He had nothing left but himself and that doesn’t get you anywhere.
And then slighted , picking up, from where? He left off, Donovan, the season, of the which?
Where he left,
Her,
By some god forsaken wayside, he mused, how,
She,
Managed now, all by the child cruel self through which he came to know,
Himself, last night drunk by amazement could he wonder, and said to her thinking of the intricately amazing web she knit, how in the world,
How on earth could he,
And she pointedly ,
if you really want to die, of it,of love, since you blew our last farthings, and came home, drunk,
Have a bottle of valiums, sure, certainly, take it all,
Igor, you just lost me, no wonder your kids hate you,
You threw her down saying lucky you,
at least you were not raped by your father, and see this is why she came to love women and never gave the chance of loving a man, while you,
You, having been diagnosed, .
should never, ever should have gotten married,
And you, which came out of a dream like request, to marry such as I,
Forgot the warning ,
Be careful for what you wish,
And now, How DoesIt Feel, ?
To be on your own?
An aristocrat in rags?
How does it feel? To beg for your next meal?
And igor’s heart broken, crying into his scotch her, sweet little raggedy girl out of nowhere, and now so very gone, into the next phase, the inevoidable gone ness, his love,
The season of the which. You know it will brake your daughters heart also, it will she said she will kill herself like her brother did if anything happens to me, and you know I am if bad health,
(Her pills all, and her sweet ailments all)
And yet , gone, maybe only still a chance if be her slave, Igor, that’s her price,
Would I? Could I? He mused,
You just god damned married me cause you wanted a trophy wife, you are merely a fag, who needed a trophy wife,
A pathetic sorry has been, a chauvinistic narcissist,
A petty no body, using me, just like suddenly,
Last summer, an
And…do you know the awful truth that cannot be spoken of,
Ever, why you want so much to see the ring next summer, when you are terrified to even get on a plane?
What personality? The next coat you oicked up to wear ?
What’s the awful secret, that I love your horrible cruelty so much, you yourself said you are not happy with me, in spite of my having given you the shirt off my back for so many decades?
She was so cruel, daunting and terrible, while so afraid like a little girl, barely alive, she may die before me , that’s the horror of it,
Then, then I cannot die, for the others’ sake or is that another rationalization? Damned, and cannot die,
I will sneak into our pauper bed, here, in Mintana now for she loves to travel, and pretending nothing happened perhaps, now
Tried that been there done that, she tired of that, it may not work this time to fuse energies, of despair,
Yes I will become her slave, give in finally?
But the torture will be horrible, the price to pay unimaginable, but yes , The Blue Angel, again,
I am creating God again, dear Friedrich I came to share, in your black mass of death, for the love of inversion, for the love of reversion, to the most basic
Acts, of which only the beastial can fathom, the pain, the love , of you, for you, in you and with you. You, Madonna.
Something tells me it must happen, but to escape from the web, inconceivable, means - and I dare not say it, for it’s inconceivable.
Igor, oh Igor, I want to get to know you.
The season of the which. Him, or, Her?
Igor’s tears for her are actually tears for without her.
Fears for tears, or tears for fears?
Or in English: can’t live with or without her.
Conclusion: none
Why? Dunno, as Igor scratches his head bewildered .
Poor Igor. Evicted from the womb, awaits the tomb, wondering whether or not thoughts and actions in the interim have more than his personal POV have to offer. He sees the woman, the cat, and the skull as products of his own imaginative desires. Yet, he cannot die gracefully without a primal scream: “what’s it all about, Alphy?”
He can not die even with the primal scream. His Thoughts are not his own, he realizes, finally, and that relives the insomnia, his master calls, of body feline her face a woman, long ago. He realizes he never dies, his thoughts not his, so while alive, always thought not his.
Boom this saves his soul, eternally. But alas, never his own.
She calls, and he beckons, yet. He cannot refuse her, poor her, she is never his own, either.
She is Deva, him: monkey boy.
If his thoughts are not his own, whose are they?
Deva is immaculate Buddhist Godess, while destroyer Zorooster Devil.
His thoughts are perpetually negated, circumscribed, , measured-disfigured, inscribed and forgotten, remembered of others long time ago, from others’near identical-similar, near thought impressions. For the future disembowled task of constructing Him.
Igor ponders, "Why should there be a battle over who I am or was unless who I am or was is a battle?
The battle has been won, now only left as the sizzle
Of foam
The receding surf,
As though,
Pound,
Out, your very subsistence,
The scream is muffled,
By the sound of the echoes of the Maximus
Limits,
The shell overcome ,
Fumes of f
Luminosity, of the 1,
It breaks his
Heartless demand for constant craving to forget
What has been learned,
Oh, God, another chance at it, another immeasurable silence whereby ,while going out,
Coming back naked,
As going in,
Little particles break off, all the time, and halve again, again , another half life.
Is there a limit to how little. The particles become,
To halve, again?
Igor thinks: there is no limit, just can’t see it at a certain point, then it disappears into the eons,
Mist, rising out of
The bluish lagoon, the lakes beckon,
With it reefs bending through you,
As if your very delicately placed kiss,
And the wild ducks speak, as if through,
…
It travels through all, and mailed, the seal unbroken,
The wax golden lay with a single strand of crimson
String run through,
For the safety on.
Gather your belongings, strike out.
Thus thought Igor about the coming storm, the eye of which , desolating any semblance,
Purposeful but shyly, as a pornographer,
To mimick the long journey into Celine’s night.
Now fly on the wings of thoughtless servers,
To ever which way, and abode there,
A while.
Then Igor reclined on a divan of virulence,
A supplication of resignation,
Mad with riddance yet …making alive. (Spaces expanding to unheard horizons, a drop of manna,
The magic of which…)
Oh, slumber, at last.no, gathering of coming dreams of further diversions, the wake up call so very far, yet instant tenuous, at hand now,
Igor,oh Igor,
Tomorrow, play the film, over…
Igor feels the wind from the East, which tells him that the meaning of his being can only be discovered if he gives up all ego attachments. He balks, honoring what he believes to be himself. He wants to know, but the East wind prophesies Unknowing. He asks, “What am I here for, if not for me?” Yet he also hears the Western wind, which is me, me, me and finds no comfort in it.
His story is one of conflict with his inner selves.
He also thinks, that sooner or later either the east wind or the west wnd predominate. If the former,maybe kernel of his being will loom large, in the latter, recede, leaving only the shell viable, the container which previously contained , yet strangely consumed him.
The shell , like the stomach, when he overheats, will eventually shrink into a much smaller size, if he goes on a diet, instead of endulging on binges of gorging himself.
Once the shell becomes appropriately the size suitable for his nature, then stasis will develop.
Igor attempts to meditate on a peanut butter sandwich: It is what it is. But then it will become part of him, part of the pulling backward and forward that keeps him in the same place. He believes with Heraclitus that the only thing permanent is change. What is the nature of the change? It seems to be a product of time. Has he ever experienced timelessness? The sandwich, a here and now, tastes good. Why couldn’t life?
Yes then the heart would mend, Igor, expand and demarinalize
I can’t find demarinalize in my standard dictionary. What does it mean?
Igor was terribly in hurry, this am, rough night in lab.
He meant demarginalize.
Igor was never the brightest of brights in school, and many pointed to his failings, but by and large has made it through .
He is now in repose and quietly reading Pirandello:
The man with the rose in his mouth. Finding some solace there.
I could wish that Igor, in his repose, could repair from the syphilis of introspection. There are worms in his brain, threatening to devour all he is or was. He is in need of the “magic bullet” of purpose to destroy them. He’s done that before, but they keep coming back, eating away at his senses.
Some most of it is purposefully executed,
The return I avoidable,
But the getting out in as unique a deceptively simple trick
Purposefully, he ventures to deconstruct
Himself an anomaly,
So seemingly nothing left,
Barely attached by a whisp,
A breath of a mere taste, a shadow world,
And when nothing past,
Nothing to loose.
No, thing.
Is he a dream within a dream, seeing only shadows on a cave wall and believing the shadows stand for real things? The worms of change eat what is physical, prompting the question–is there anything after the devouring? Is life preparation or dead end?
Better to attend to the cat and the peanut butter than to become mad through speculation.
Better just to be Igor than Igor transcended?
Really, better,
By far, to be,
The end is the point, the point is the end,
But there, no point, visible, the point to begin,
After all, may,
Be, the point is the end,
If not, then, well
No point,
But if no point, no end, then for no better no worse.
But but but,
But but
But, there is a beginning,
A beginning begin the begin
When it seems, becomes
Trying, itself, to be,
To see to love, to work at it to please and
Dream the dream, within,
Within the dream within,
The dream so on so forth,
To become, the point the purpose, the evolved man,
Super!
My god think he got it!
That’s the point , of becoming,
Is always be
Coming to the point, the point which is the dream within,
The dream with
Out,
Out of becoming, the dream which is not a dream
The dream of never ending
Point to at least one who dreams not
Wishing hoping willing wanting to be, to love to eat and drink and be marry,
To want to become,
Like you and countless others all resolving into a point as you You
Ascend descend farther farther and still.
Farther in , farther out,
The many become,
One if seen from far far far far far
A way,
Way, way away,
Farthest, no farther, it approaches the point the point
That is
I
Love
You.