For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror

There is this word  called unruh. Its restlessness measured  by its lack of syllables- which have fed the moths in the dusty closet of another slang- perhaps, the rendering of a mottenfraße. Planted in a foreign flesh, the cants of a novel tongue, dawdle, saumselig, dithering to germinate alleys. Sonant by sonant searching their own memories for that one silbe of lullaby. Scwindende, Lächelden Rauchshriftzeichen im kneipe- nostalgia of laughter in a sidewalk cafe. Whispers that make the body blossom into the palaver of pleasure. But nothing!!! Nichts!!! Only a long screech of loneliness. Mutterseelenallein, which scars like bluterguß, sounds like the name of a flower but is just a bruise.

 Bodies disintegrate into equations on the manifolds of yearning. On coordinates, which are cartesian, geodesics of desires collide and molecules  unfold on the number line: an integer  of oxytocin grapples with a fraction of vassopressin. Sometimes, hands slouch  along the decimals of skin conjuring the silhouette of a word too irrational  to slur into the numberline. At other times, the algebra of an ache is too transcendental to pin it to the geometry of syllables

I wonder what the forest feels when the cold comes probing  its shame? Its tremulous green turning into a kaleidoscope of blush. Those boulevards of rotten veins, which had once echoed with sunlight, now spill their harlequin epitaphs onto the sky.

It hasn’t been long since my father’s stroke but, I am already forgetting the smell of his voice. That whiff, in which we could hear the squelch of anxious bodies jostling on a Railway Station. Our voices hung over his reticence like crimes. And his few words were rust barely holding the metal of a sentence together. The angst of his boyhood would often crumble through the grease of time like oxidised self. While he eased the sorrows of machines the cogs of his family eroded. His love for us was measured in his privations. The cadavers of his frayed shirts and the fossils of his worn shoes were like the deserted cities, held together by ghettoes  of hope. In rooms, which grieved of claustrophobia, my mother’s shame would drain his embrace and his respite. The streets where she perished, and he lost the syllables of speech; at their zenith noise will be deep. But I must reach to...

I rummage through my nights, scores of browser tabs at a time, in search of anodynes to disrupt the gearbox of aches, whirring beneath my skin. Enmeshed stars of lust and loneliness, grinding time into a trickle of Dopamine or entangling it into an angst ridden scribble. In the jism stained habits of yesterdays, to which cling the charred smell of orgasms, I snort through my eyes the cocaine of writhing flesh till the sclera is a montage of dead pixels submerged in the humors of neon light.

Somewhere, in the jaundiced morgue of the night, usually awaits sleep- its grubby hands ready to autopsy my calloused dreams. Lodged in the viscera, spring is in fetters, of saris, of skeins of colours, buried inside a barren closet, never to spread its iridescent wings. Gothic raiments of cities hide alleys of gossip (on which we will never loiter) and the twisted arcades of wasting idioms remain sewn to the sepulcher of flesh. The insipid slime of sunlight denude the coarse cinders of spices from my skin. And the winds shed the ruins of melodies which you had sown in me.