/lit/ - Literature

>>22570746

> you're showing off a bit too much with the word choices here and there imo
part of it is that, I think a lot of it's because I used a subtractive process to write paragraphs. Reciting it orally should fix a lot of the problems there, there are some overwrought metaphors that make the text a bit clumsy

>>22570858

Thanks for the effort, it's an honor to be worth any consideration. Funny enough, the series actually is about the main character's power fantasies. He isn't some seasoned secret agent with any type of prowess, but an entry-level cog in a machine he increasingly distrusts. Instead of being at the forefront of some moral movement or potent vengeance, he goes through a process of self-hatred and self-discovery. He ultimately decides to sublimate his selfish desire before pursing it, retreats into the world of his own delusion to obtain it, and assess if this journey reflects the reality of the wider world.

>>22570923

> But in fact the most complex book ever written was written by an english professor in some no name university who's book title I cannot remember because I stopped reading in the first sentence

Many, many such cases, probably. Many great writers suffer in silence

> I didn't grasp enough of a story by that page for it to hook me in its talons

I can see that. The book starts in media res, and the events of the first book mostly unfold in domino order. The first book is the background for the other two, an overview of the initial unrest in Iran and how the main character interacts with it to become "legend"; it builds the world in which they operate, so it introduces the world powers, political institutions, and military forces which make things happen. The second book will be much more personal, as half of it will be backstory of the main character and the other half what occurs after the first book

>>22573040

> Dark theme, bro. Save your eyes.
Gotta look into it

>>22564101

Hello, /wg/! Three quarters of my next-to-last draft is done, boys... I'm so ready for it to be over. It's more than 100,000 words long now so far (barring any further streamlining), and it's taken more than four grueling years to get to this point; I was 24 when I started, now I'm 28. Lots of loneliness and wasted nights in front of a white computer screen, but my obsession compels me to continue. I have to leave something more behind than a few anecdotes and a bullshit dissertation. For once, I'm somewhat proud of something I've done. I've never written a novel before, but I think I found my process:

> paragraph-level outline => set uniform word quota per paragraph (I think 300 words was my first limit lol, definitely not doing this step for future books) => start typing out a hodgepodge of pertinent phrases, words, and ideas that come to mind until each quota is filled (I call it "vomit") => retool paragraph number/length and chapter divisions into a more organic form as they start cohering with each other thematically => start interspersing repeating motifs and themes inside the existing text as I start sensing connections to further bring it all together => introduce more elements into the story as its world becomes fuller => refine the vomit into prose paragraph-by-paragraph => make stylistic edits to the prose to make it sound smoother => hunt for repetitive words/phrases and break them up

Once the next-to-last draft is completely finished, I'll orally narrate the book to myself chapter-by-chapter and clean up the overly-purple parts, then it should be done. I'd also like to put in some nice maps when I typeset the first edition, commissioning cover art and marketing will probably be challenging the first time around. I don't know if Kid Demiurge will ever gain a large readership, I figure the second book in the trilogy will be much more accessible to readers than this one (this process has helped me write a SHITTON of notes that will make the series much richer than I first anticipated).

Anyway, here's the first four chapters I shared with you guys several years back, much improved:

https://docdro.id/6Q4XHRa

tl;dr
As always, I do it for you faggots as much as myself, even if you despise me. Enjoy my spergy screed, thanks for the love and the hate and the valuable feedback you've given me (the more the merrier, hit me up if you want)

>>18150549

It's a continuation from my previous work, so it's a meta-thing, also signifies continuation, kinda like the first words on the first track in Pink Floyd's The Wall were "...where we came in?", which carried on from the last track. Thanks

>>18148462
>Iranian guy
Good memory on you, glad I’m not too forgettable! I am the Iranian dance guy lol, and I see your point on the need to show a conflict in the first chapter. I want to add foreshadowing of morality patrols a bit more there, but the next chapter does that, along with the humor (basically, a group of lads at the party who take a piss on the couple in the first chapter in an aside convo, wonder why the dudes there, call the girl a wound-up career-minded nutcase, and think of him as an effete faggot), and doing so may make the event overstated. I’ll see about that... otherwise, after the absolute flaying I got from the critanons, I actually have the flow down I want now, with the two eavesdropping passages outlining the banality of the gathering until the main character throws in the wrench. It won’t be for the baseline reader, lots of geography and indulgent chatter on philosophy pushed around throughout the book. It’s more erudite, for someone interested in the area, someone who wants more than the “hip, Europhile hijabi girl who’s had three boyfriends and is a secret agent in Tehran” schtick they’re batting around on TV and in books lately. Also, dialog drives much of the later chapters, so I want do balance it a bit with some good old-fashioned descriptive writing.

>>18148759
> nice reveal at the end
Thanks lad. The raid won’t go as you expect, it’s one of those stories where one event snowballs on the other until the whole worlds involved :)
Concerning the historicity, I mashed modern stuff in on purpose. In the Persian Book of Kings (for which the book is an unofficial continuation), a cycle of conflict between Iran and Turan rages for millennia, back and forth, with the characters’ progression marking time. The whole first book warms up for the eventual conflict which spills over from the heirs of Turan into Iran, in a story which the main character’s actions have some bearing on. Let’s just say it involves a certain containment board we’ve all come to know and love ;)

>>18144489

>>18144863
>>18145477

Here you go, faithful ones:

https://docdro.id/x5Mn0mv

Chapter 1 starts on page 4, I can't stress that enough lol. It's the near-final draft, I went through it in the frenzy I had to finish up, still have work to do as you can see. I think it sounds far more concise than the last one, which droned on for much longer.

I put the book's preface in before chapter 1 as well, so you might get some perspective on what I'm doing (connecting the Islamic and the Iranian, as Ferdowsi did); the intro in a traditional Persian work is often wordy and stuffed with filler, so I'm satisfied with it there; the first page after the title page will be a table of contents, so people can navigate to chapter one directly.

>>18144324

The Wikimedia Project is the best thing the Internet ever created, on a level with this throatsinging imageboard. Can't tell you how many times I've referred to Wiktionary now, much more helpful than most dictionaries because I'm a fag for etymology and stuffing my head with other words and structures from foreign languages, which probably doesn't help my English lexicon

>>18144335
I'll look into that. Funny how the styles change

So close lads...

I wanted to get my first novel done before 25, even took a few days off work before my 26th birthday to get the current draft revised beginning to end (~64,000 words), but my ADHD-addled mind just couldn't handle it, and I fell short, which made me feel ashamed. All I have to my name writing-wise is a 5,000 word screed poem I wrote at 19 and self-published, I want this one to be special. I slept for a few days after my birthday. I've ignored it for almost a month to lift the fatigue, and I've been surprised at how much I actually finished from the first outline I made for it two years ago. I'll probably hit it again next month, revise it chapter by chapter in a slow way, complete the rest of the stanzas from the poetry I wrote in it, and commission the illustration, which will probably cost me half a grand for what I want.

Thanks for reading my blog ladds, had to get it out. Your gift for reading it is a sample of the poetry, in Saadi's metre:

> Sunset o’er great Araxes’ every canyon’s yonder chasm
> Lavished too its regal spectrum on a rooftop west Khwarazm:

> Hexafoliate daisy’d inlay, nacre ‘top a borrowed bureau,
> Glimmered sprays of gold and turquoise through fine musk in glassy limbo;

The 'glassy limbo' is the main character's eyeballs, a few other unfinished couplets will clear it up. For those who remember me here, thanks for the harsh input on my first chapter (and admittedly using the word 'lavished' instead of 'dolloped', still ashamed about that haha), I trimmed it down quite nicely because of you.

>>15725393

The romanticizing that the character does is deliberate, because he uses the motifs in it to transcend reality, integrate into Iranian history, and become a resistance figure/martyr for his supporters, who value martyrs highly as Iranians, after which he'll become a postmodern type of shah. He's never "lived" in a stable way.

Some spoiler stuff, if you want it:


> the main character was a former US military linguist working for the NSA, on the entry-level side (this isn't revealed until the end of the book)
> asperger's syndrome and antisocial, he was taught Arabic by the Army, and through that avenue, his aspie obsession became Persianate cultures and history, along with Middle Eastern politics
> becomes isolated in the military in a job that doesn't matter, he came on as part of a recruitment quota for a war that was getting wrapped up
> can't make meaningful relationships, draws further into himself
> his only escape is singing and going to underground parties to dance, realizes that he has a talent in performance, and that people film him and get more energetic once he dances
> a plan starts to develop, connecting raves and some Iranian elites' participation in it as a revolutionary activity
> his obsession turns into research in NSA archives at his workstation, learning who's who in Iranian politics and the elite
> studies physical borders for vulerabilities as well so he can smuggle himself across
> disillusioned with normie society and faced with existential crisis after one of his mentors kills himself, he decides to take action on his own to curb what he sees as America's warmongering, fights with his narcissism in this regard
> plans to become a lone-wolf, using his performance skill to find a place in the Iranian rave scene and to coordinate knowledge of the regime's vulnerabilities to destabilize Iranian society as an accelerationist of sorts (the method's too long for this)

>>15725241

I did (I'll tripfag myself, don't like normally doing this)

>>7565534

Elaborate please.

>>7565510

The practice of taqaandan (also taghaandan) also puts men at risk of penile fracture. Taqaandan, which comes from a Kurdish word meaning "to click," involves bending the top part of the erect penis while holding the lower part of the shaft in place, until a click is heard and felt. Taqaandan is said to be painless and has been compared to cracking one's knuckles, but the practice of taqaandan has led to an increase in the prevalence of penile fractures in western Iran.[5] Taqaandan may be performed to achieve detumescence.

That's what I was looking for. This should explain it.

>>7565462

There's a ligament in the penis that keeps it hard. This is what cracks. i wouldn't suggest it though.

>>7565033

Someday lol

********************************FIN********************************

Thanks for reading. Browse on.

Book XI (Part 2)

"Go on, render your futile expression free to spatter
by powdery middleman;
those flaming particles shall blanch
at the contact of my will,
they shall expel your missile seven times faster
to account for the oddity of its destination,
out of their own fear for absolution,
for it shall be no longer a frenzied romp with the
mechanized reaper, but rather
the ray from a waning star
glowering impotent in infamy,
spanning the fatal distance toward my enlightenment;
it shall ring true
in the guise of a berserker,
grazing my flesh,
spreading its brawny petals
through my corporeal cavity,
certainly agape
by your violent adieu,
but as the bullet continues
its physical circuit,
as it tests the tantalizing asymptote,
my atom will spiral towards the infinite,
newly alive from the resolve of
the converging vessel,
ever sacrosanct through infinitesimal proximity,
through the axes of adolescent death
and of the accommodating prophet
until you beg for my function's termination, my nectar…"

***

Finished 7:54 PM, March 28, 2015

By Ghazy Loon

Book XI (Part 1)

Ascent from the Limousine!
I am the future, I am the Apparition; I am the Extrapolation!
I am a Performer at heart,
forever destined for the stentor-drone;
he could not dance with another but himself
and the Witness of Providence…

Go away in darkness, tend to Pardes!
for I need Her untouched tresses this premiere night,
or at worst to transfigure a Peasantess lesser;

Homeward to the true Catskill wood!
I cannot recall the road theatre-ward through the unrelenting pitch
which is drenched with extant fog from my ominous foreknowledge...

This is my Piece that I have prepared,
in the bower of my Discontentment,
in the hovel of my Resentment;
as is contrary to the laurels of victory,
I must leave my glinting Car to be ultimately decided;
at least I dressed my Faith on a mane-endowing scarf…

This red carpet stretches out for my own Feet,
this is how it found its way to an unlikely Threshold;

Malinche opens theater’s door for me…

"Who be the woman who's split but silent?
Be you the woman of foreign spirits,
the daughter of agave
envision'd by her calling culture
to whip the skipping circle 'round,
for whom the cabrons shuffled harder
with every liquid administration,
for whom they reel'd broken 'til true dawn
with every drop of blue Jalisco blood taken,

Or be you the shirking saint toward passions below,
the altair of all aloof,
to whom beauty retreads your namesake grey seas in vain,
though whom in pearly premonition a score of silly shepherds covets?

Come regardless, mysterious reveler,
abscond with another to aft chambers,
places no gold-vested guard could clear:
vivid vicinities for consummation of flailing crescendo,
vexing memories which appease deviant throes…"
Her inevitable narcolegacy follows...

I am now between my Door and the Crowd!
As I have taken over their place as the object of desire,
the cinema picture repeats on the screen:
Ghazy Loon watching himself watching himself without End,
Panning out without End,
upon that foyer-shaped Thread into static Reality:

*Destiny's brother emerges and shoots,
this is what my present has become at last,
an eluding limit between perpetual picture from the past
and the coming bullet from Destiny's brother!*

י (Yodh)

"You! Who are you to terminate my function by combustible alchemy?

I carry the spatial tidings of space-time circular:

The 'Kind feasts friendly and unseen, leaving only its eclectic colonnade of legs

to proliferate from its shade the crumbs of their communion

'till you raged in rhythm to the humorous pitter-patter,

rancid from their secondhand puddles formed in their sultry ecstasy,

their conjectured hands prayed high in lofty exposure,

permeable eyes as one to the server'd cloud they nourish from...

Is its last eclipse marked your day to finally fill

the empty tableaux you paced under intimidated?

Its expert surface would surely scream redefined once seized,

this platform on which you stand, in stationary stone,

its terra tiles crass crockery to hold Cronian lust reaped,

the gritty grout between them imperial canals of molten wrath,

a grid engorged with sanguine parameters fast-clotting

about the turn'd anemic weaklings…

These dripping products must indeed be your quenching drink..."

Book IX

My compartment was rapped upon at last,
my presence requested!
In the center of the square
I opened my dorm's door to several doors deep,
walls white,
dense and negligent of pile in its leached carpets,
thank God for the level nature of this splinter,
for if it was turn'd skyward on its side
Hall's stuffy stave of heaven would drown
slow blanching me
with squalor in its staccato scatter,
I playing eye games with the others
that I may not connect with
'till I finally sit understanding
into the eyes of my rectors;

I was in great trouble!
The office of your superiors
tell me to recall these events
in the company of my peers!
Yet…
I cannot speak clear…

"Why must you speak in riddle?
Put an end to this detached nonsense
you are not nonchalant,
and put your subject first. Remember:"

OURS IS THE PAROLE,
SHE BEARS NO OTHER LANGUID CREOLE.

My, how the Parole is potent on my position that night
for it was given freely from the mouth of my chosen companion
I knew its nature now
for it I am ordered to keep futile guard
in the plush foyer of Purgatory,
edge of the boundaries of
hurtling rashly into A Wall…

Me and my Mate sit in the crook of life's stairway…
a stratified gallery of balustrades splits
ten minutes till Midnight;
fluorescent light's enlightenment is my only stimulant at that time
from the diffracting canthus of my hornrims,
those impossible distorted stories mock that I cannot master them,
that entire suites of emanations in them I cannot keep
from my surreal forefront;
like clumsy leather feet tripping over those trivial flights,
I might try to remaster the original image...
Just look not too lofty or you’ll smolder in the red penthouses
lest you climb those long lengths to places unknown,
for the confusion of Color will rouse you traveling to the next verse...
I must be a Courier for every major Dolor now
but all their Floors are threadbare and black!

For the Forest outside the dusty Door is the new Game my Mate is playing:
"Parallax of Passerines" for any known System,
where the pedantic Sparrows morph their beaks to consume
on Edge of the wood with her Vireos,
the Juncos' heads sway with the perilous grass,
groundward do the Nuthatches upend their spritely movement,
warblers are where the Hunter only knows,
while the untimely mask of the Yellowthroat
droops drama-wasted on the cement…

"Are you sure you want to stay in this place?"
my Mate asks...

Book VIII (Part 2)

Its Beacon shone all the brighter at the edge of the Town,
the sand dunes taut as a tendon
yet nipping vacant Produce stalls miles away...
bonfires rashed along the coast,
not to indicate any warnings,
but to be instead,
and to carry on the novelty of the sunset
family by day, couples by night
both refrain from the harrowing Cataract
I finally navigate…

Tread this Teat by dopplerlight
to ply its sustenance!
Tonight was time to wander, not to dance,
no time to grind for lovers,
no time to coddle previous exploits,
verily it was time to wander!

The homeless man told me
heading due opposite the temperate Pardes
was barely pardon to his desert-made metropolis;
that southbound offers his million-beloved's warning
that whoever roots the dunes should sense
some skull-cracking fun at leaden Expense…

The Lighthouse indicating my Quadrant showed me
an image of stepped enlightenment
by its fresnel Lens:
that errant starboard pleasure Yacht,
is a slender gentrifying Assassin instead,
busy condemning the common Crafts leeward;

after the two top corners I rounded the other side
to the allowance of their gated guard
keeping vigil over bud's center…

The Forest composed the Center of the Square
where the mountain lions haunted Her mansions;
perhaps a paring of the residents' former daring
still soured any prospect of their sharing…
As I cast deviant shadows in their windows
and stalked the especially dark bend,
I wanted my Land!

How I still want my deciduous Land!
Woe, I must sleep on its Sand,
or write obscenities in the well trimmed bunkers
just atop the ridge in Prime's Vineyard; no,
I must slumber on His beach till early morning…

the Scrub Jay at the station is hangover silent
and being scolded for his vociferous Trebles…

I watch all the migrants in the morrow…
Farewell to all delusion!
It's such sorrow to rethink Vagrancy's virtues…

I come to realize I squared the Circle instead;
in trying to kiss its Quadrature I flit around capricious,
I had been found wanting of its Demarcation;
I then left the Peninsula almost an island…

I must abandon the skete for a Nation;
the balls-out Fool found it edged a cliff to the dissolving Sea…
He is in trouble now too!

Book VIII (Part 1)

Such a somber countenance…
we were in our former foothills now
the torturing plain longer again to the sallow waters
the disturbances of the moon that much more distant in
the wood where I tried my last cashed greenery;

When I got up to receive her…
Such a young being in my scheme,
she was leaning on my borrowed car,
looking down her unlaced bust after the act,
her cheekbones caught the bounds of my perception...
the only supports that sifted me from her chasms,
all before she looked up and bid me adieu forever,
a scorned part of myself teetering the precipice of this quivering being,
skated her wispy lashes…

I clutched with mine own
the tail of one in vain,

as dashing myself in despair
upon odious vein of pathos,
the strings' edges seemed nary any metallic filament;
they seemed as a sliver of obsidian, a
beer neck slide whose subtle contours
swelled with momentous lava flow,
reuniting with its glass strummers;
glass was made to interface upon
runny silicates with germanium cell phones
computer chips and nanotube cylinders seceding once more…
to fit over the pervasive finger of the new lone piper,
asphyxiated face aped the Orphic gape,
entreating all amorphous conduits work together
in their minute respective circuitries to make,
and ride light the dark corneas;
every time her lids did *blink*,
they bucked me off her into a sober future…

"'How thin is a linear lifeline?'
I wonder,
can it be physical,
made of cratered asphalt
I wonder tonight
on this magnificent balls thirty-nine
County Road 1108;
all the numbers odd from east westward,
all trajectories toward conjecturable,
the nucleus of the vistas via leeward;
I finally stop running away into the night
to savor a gaze toward the beckoning lurch;
guardians asleep sans vigilance,
for murderous lethargy scattered their clairvoyant optic over
Amphetamine Valley…
In the form of flashing radio towers
(they're flashing now)
staccato tungstens oscillating through purple space,
though never attaining the blazing azure
of their metaphorical progenitor transfixing my fabric
that could only be the poseur of Argus…
Alert! Another staccato?!
Look both ways to no
animate illusion (all is dark after all)…
I yearn vacuum-mute for some wandering vehicle to intercept me,
of whose Seratonin deficients inside
would erode my Melatonin defense
into an act smooth as the Road ridden;
Oh fuck me, you swarthy passenger!
Don't even change seats, for I desire a frontal view
to the orgy turn'd leathery burgundy;
Jolt my iridescent 'Cock
'til the white lens' silhouettes
rattle feebly 'round my starless retinas
like silver coins jingle
in the tip jar of a ragass panhandler…
Lofty cedar tops envelop the wanderluster like an obscure manger…"

Book VII (Part 2)

We were all fiddling with our precious-washed rings excitedly;
The bigger of us had cited
the bite of your wistful riding crop
As I had;
Clasp me by my little finger at least to your Powder Room…

Your physiognomy rivets me…
Unwroughtable luminaries so tawny, they irrigated
what has grown and what is to bear There...
Your rapacious face fram’d with
dense locks that curl your sins inside of them,
down to your very shoulders;
zaftig figure, robust countenance…
Each pious wrinkle weighting it paints an iconic sigil;

Our discourse matters not, for it is broken…
I remember not your quotations,
we must speak in proper terms now,
since we are approaching the Archetype
we have so consciously striven toward…

"…your world is not new but novel nonetheless that I peer into…"

Yes!

How I submit to the throes of trivial puberty!

Let's repose to Urb-!
*a finger to my lips*
"DO shirk from the utterance of such an act of establishment;
We mustn't mention the name of that modern place
but keep the City from where sands’ father first eroded
vague and placid in pronunciation,
who built it to remain a bitter mystery."

Come to my Nation, O myrrh-ting'd missal…
Embody the fuming Mistress in whom my nation drowns immersed,
represent Her increasing mystery,
you’re Columbia Intrinsic’s seer…

Culture of your Bowels is mixed with your bloody Waters,
putrifies the Curd from your exhumed monstrosities,
permeating those which nourished of your monasteries;
located far too away to ever want repatriation,
all your Patriarchs are already disgraced,
their winged Beasts jackhammered in high definition,
Your dammed vessels be the avenues of your conquerors,
for their bitterness of their byproducts shall run through…
Stagnant to curdle’d hurdle your eras immemorial…

I pine in the storied basking of her lost Pines
for the highest active fire of her Land,
Yet to my chagrin,
she scorns those dense trappings of my own dear Mazandaran…

"Fine, says I, but what from your sand?"

Book VII (Part 1)

In the commencement of my life's Prime,
I can already see deceleration
as a vivification of End's acceleration,
the warmth of their orange pigments
at the immuring of the sodium Orb,
like the lull of the cake-fed Vagrant
plushed the adobe walls of the City’s defunct customshouse,
such cush snuff which daub the burners of the forbidden…

May some purer stuff fuel me home…

The first flight's return relapsed my memory's nighttime;
I must return a leeward aileron trailing the interface of a wing
near uncamber'd in the station of reaping,
pure in light upon the separating edge jaws
flashing similar orange in warning to the
in vain guise as a pulsar on a fixed path
sailing in the tradestream of the cumulonimbus floor,
indigo firmament, under the rind of the fixed stars
whose inlaid illumination is provided by the lowly skylines and fateful crossroads
provide a vain attempt just glimps'd to format the life of the bedazzled yonder
from nether of the braves' land;
for if one foot recedes back to the cloudy,
we will again hurtle to our doom…

"It's not what is going on about you, its whats inside you that wants to come out…"

"Rouse, rouse… whither we repose from our pillow?
Under the consequential auspices of the patergeist,
whom instills the future in you, whom you won't have met yet
in your sequence till your fruit will have become tepid from the pleasure of its falling…
you shall go with him round the stolid block,
seeing the remnant of your reflection against the buzzing
of the violet streetlamps on the wan window
at utter still of the developing morning…
he has a mission for you that he won't initiate from his self…
the means seems to infuse through you slowly
as he hails the shady doorman in under the slate vault,
the bowels of the artificial world… In we go, all us dwellers,
into the walls saffron from the dust of saffron,
so noble a pigment, yet wantonly forgotten
in its slipshod application
for our eagerness to perform such ashen shames in its angles…
from the thin oak door came my client,
to which I asked her hire to blow me...
What modesty, cracked my guides with beckonance…
inside her Quarter I went, under the zari Canopy.
The unpracticed dance of the ages commencing all around the ruffling rectangle,
for which the moment of climax arrived with the rifting of the loincloths
from her thighs to the great Delta,
a granite chisel'd yoni propped perfectly atip my engorged plume…
a most unwelcoming grind…"

I see a stubborn Wadi in the east
withstanding the throes of the desert,
whose Delta recedes from my psyche
like the Tiger from her basin;

O Matriarch of Ur, misconstrued ursa,
lead me by my hand into the great East;
I will squeeze back wholly
as your green Orientalist,
and excavate your Quarters of leisure…

>>7565248

Kurdish men also like to crack their dicks like cracking knuckles. It seems like its a tradition...

the more you know, right? lol

Book VI (Part 3)

Yet there was hardly a Fornix to the entire damned establishment…
Where is the evidence
in this descending inversion of time
for all my quailing experiences?

‘Twas period of regression into Youth
for an Opus was forming in my Time,
its Name in mind...

***

Temples and City Nights
were open for the weekend
I was clubbin' on the authority's floor
where all their rooms synonymous with each other...

"No one in this block of concrete seems to have seen the purity of light;
all was red, blue, green, black.
Our whole student body, here to mojo at least one night.
No one dancing with lovers, just grinding on these downcast women.
You must move to the center of the throng to see the real tendencies of humanity.
No need to communicate, because your feeble conversation gets trampled
by the steel waves of the subwoofers.
Just talk with your body; however, I had nothing prepared to say."

the 'Kind knows the way…


To the center of that gridded triangle
grated by the seedy streets of the City
to the budless pagoda
with the trademark blacklight graffiti in its basement...

Ventilating on its crowded terraces,
Nepotism strifes my most hedonistic Times,
so when wildly kicking the air supine
in the middle of the formed line,
they actually attempted to intimidate me!
Shame, we would all get kicked out late in the Morning...

What a Foreigner amongst the Twerkers!
Somewhere between the cycling Songs,
they called me Magic,
those who refused me first called me now midchorus...

"Never have hands lit up as when they detect
God’s true dyed sculpture beneath their grimy dermis.
Curve below, delicate bone flexing upwards.
It’s not too bad for mine one far below, but it is quite a bashful fellow
when something happens to contact through denim with it.
No need for mysterious mestizos, their friends, their sex, tonight at all;
just this one kindred spirit, with me for as long as the despicable rhythm
kept her alive…"

Ahtziri came to me
My six-petaled cornflower queen!
The garrote-thin fringe on her sleeves
parroted maizesilk powder’d qirmiz;
with every intimation we beframed more the Door
that rends the genres' Corridor…

Even her peyote proved unnecessary...
She was alone another Shorty paying my way Back…

"All that neon shied away from our journey forward. Tension made our car plane through the passing lines, past the incoherent mass, to a more desirable stretch of Enigma..."


This long hair is not mine, yet it whips the air equine-fine…
Broke the Wineglass to free the Drink
as I jumped on its pompous dining-Table,
after the overnight Return at four in the morning;

Perchance Patricia plays couth the piano inside her Hotel;
I shall cowtow to you Serayites no more,
for Ahtziri’s Queen will be my cornflower-eye'd Means...