Literature of Exhaustion
I began reading John Barth's Essay: The Literature of Exhaustion. Grand narratives, character strengths, substantial plots all have become facets of the past. We can imagine a narrative that's postmodern and called Situationism, a narrative that exists like art strips making the reader aware that creation is a ploy or a hoax. Situationism resembles pop art; it is also a reinvention of the baroque in a sense where reality and metaphysics coincide to create an ornament that's a fictional ambiguity. Situationism is also minimalism and I leave a fiction in fictional hyperbole: ".................................................................................................................." the end of a gossip can.
The Gold Chain
It is worn by my mother the old hag. Looking at it I always wonder of the money I can get if I sell it. I would have to wring it from her neck. I get a delicious pleasure thinking of it. But the consequences forbid me. She might land me in Jail. It shines like the scales of a Serpent. It's pure gold. The wish of snatching it from her never dies. Days go by and I wonder if I can cradle her affections and get it smoothly from her. I have but I have bitterly failed. Why does the old hag, the widow, need to be adorned in gold? She has also become born again and born again people do not deck in gold. Can I sneak it from her while she is asleep? No I can't! Shit! The old wretched hag.
Neighbor
My neighbor in the middle east earned a staggering 7 million from a lottery draw. First I felt happy for him. Then I felt jealous. If he can why can't I? Money is needed for the good things in life.
March 14th
March 14th is my birthday. So is Einstein and Amir Khan the bollywood superstar. People remark: " so you and their birthdays match; yet you have reached no where. You are a non entity". I smile and my eyes twinkle. Yes, there's something pathetic about me.
Repentance
Like the repentant thief on the cross I am always repenting. Then I sin again. I can't help it. Yes, my christianity is always one of repentance.
Panting
At first they were sighing softly as whispers of the wind. Then they started panting restless. Soon they merged into a sea of ecstasy.
A Fairy Tale
Epilogue
They lived happily afterwards.
Prologue
The prince was turned into an ugly toad by a scheming witch. The imrprisoned princess ABRACADABRAS the witch by a good-charming spell and transforms the toad into a handsome prince.
Sad to say I lament. I can't fling my imagination and join with the charcters as I did in my childhood. I have grown older and sadder.
Phallic Worshipers
They were all out on the road carrying a huge float of a phallus inserted in the yoni (cunt). Most of them were merry making and inebriated. They were shouting obscenities to please their GOD. They started blocking the way and I got stuck. I wonder what pleasure they get? I dreamed of intercourse with my significant other. I dreamed of having a quiet drink and relaxing.
Evening
The sky has turned into a writer's pen and is writing in many colors. I watch a faded leaf fall on to the ground. Bird wings are gliding like a symphony. The sky resembles the shape of many ribs. Yes, slowly I watch darkness spread like cheese on a piece of bread. All these are my friends and I am not lonely anymore.
The Lottery Seller
I knew him personally. In the evening when I checked the result in his counter my face became glum. Later I realized that he was gloomier than me. The lottery ticket result page was underlined with many numbers that had won the prize. So I asked him: "many of your tickets have won the prize, yet why are you feeling down?" He replied: " today I did not win even a single prize. I have done that to dupe the public so that they won't stop buying the tickets." We smiled together, a pathetic smile.
She
I was sitting in a psychiatric clinic. Beside me were a girl and her family. The girl was apprently not well. She kept pacing up and down the corridor muttering something illegible. Her parents shouted at her asking her to sit down. When she did not consent, one of her relatives gave her a thrashing. I thought what a bastard. He doesn't know how to deal with a mentally ill person. The poor girl started weeping.
Explosion
I exploded like a bomb. The debris of my explosion lay scattered on the commode. Shit! Bloody Shit! Cleaning onself is a boredom, an existential nausea. The doing of a pathetic job is being like caught for dope.
Phallic Worshipers
They were all out on the road carrying a huge float of a phallus inserted in the Yoni (Cunt). Most of them were merry making an inebriated. They were shouting obscenities to please their God. They started blocking the way and I got stuck. I wonder what pleasure do they get. I dreamed of my significant other, of having a drink and relaxing.
Impressum
Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 09.08.2017
ISBN: 978-3-7438-2768-4
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