THE
FAILURE
I am a staunch weirdo. I say what I feel.
Are
you the weirdo you should be?
I show
what I do and I do what others don't show.
I am
right at your face all the time
and I
represent those who are indifferent to themselves
and
awkwardly different for your normalcy,
and I
am prepared to love the battle or love yours
produce.
Two
pure sanities can rarely accept
each
other in this world
as one
does see the vast stretch of unclaimed land
but
one is never happily ready to give up,
or
even to share his own
land.
I am
always the unchanged and non-hypocritical
'nude guy'
in
your wildest dreams and your worst nightmares.
But I
am still a failed poet of my own poetry.
I am
the failed poet who lives it all
and
still succumbs to death twice a day,
one by
his own hand, one by the futility of the day.
I keep
telling you I am weird as I too turn cunning
at
hideous dawn and hideous dusks.
I try
to show I am in the middle of extremities
and I
fear my potential of swinging both ways.
Borders
are the most effected, borders are the most hated,
borders
are the most desired.
I am
the failed poet who watches birth,
growth,
desire, love, explorations,
sex and death rather than seeking it.
I am
the failed poet who likes to view frames
as
they are presented as who has seen
the
soul, who has seen the air without feeling it.
And
feelings are again skin centric
as that which touches the mind has its passage through the skin.
As for
seeking, I seek what birth has in it
that
makes it mature enough to lose out of desire,
shatter
out of love, scatter to explore in an earthen mating
where
one fuses with many
either
producing none
or
ignoring everyone.
I like
blowing my brain out with my own bullets.
I like
blowing theirs if they want.
I kill
them who are happy to be killed.
I
empty my cartridge not to refill with
faces but cartridges.
I keep
faces as happy targets, happily and sadly repeated.
I
wonder how many of you blow even with those of others
as I
have always seen contractual shooters,
life
soldiers, hunters.
I have
rarely seen fused happiness with least explosions,
I have
rarely witnessed saints shooting saints,
killing
with a smile, looking at the kill that smiles.
I am
the failed poet who has never thought beyond
the little folded baby-child growing in its home under a bigger home.
And
the child has failed to remain a baby under an injected tendency.
A
failed poet, keeping his child bold, growing
questioning
and rebellious, claiming a new wild home.
Am I
not supposed to? Am I not supposed to explode myself
into
pieces of ‘me’ and call it absolutely
normal?
Is the
one who's a traveller assigned a single destination?
Does
the resort, only knowing how to shelter, shelter only one?
The
folded child has been quiet, restless, mischievous, arrogant,
all in
calling the home dark, the wild home dark
as
darkness is nothing but an excuse to explore.
I have
been a failed poet as I have tried to know all and adamantly link all.
But I
have seen them deny, the homes deny as they always have
A few
children are always dead before they can even stay
and a
few agreed to accept but only the face of a child,
they
could never give away.
And
then, I have seen the wild home getting weirder at my face,
as it
did know how to fail and still flutter open,
how to
reject and still make believe the cosiness
and
even how to accept two or three at a time
and
thus, I have mated as friendly brothers, twins, duplets and triplets
in a
wildly, wordy and worldly home of the same.
I am
the failed poet who thinks he has won
when
you fail in having constant moods,
when
you fail in lodging a curiosity for an identity,
when
you fail in believing your home can never be looted.
Children
are only naughty but oppositions make him bad.
I am a
failed poet as I am a weirdo.
I am a
weirdo as I am beyond the murderer and the murdered.
Ejaculation
was always on your attractive face
without
love or remorse
though
the wannabe followers have chosen safer dumping zones.
The
failed poet has failed both in wins and failures
to
collect rawness from sane heaven and hell.
The
weirdo has always won picturising greater extremities
out of
the extremes.
You
can never figure me out as I am happy being both
and
you have never cared to see beyond a cloth
and
that appearances always attract moths.
Do you
still believe those embedded beauties make you beautiful?
I have
been a combined failure as I have always believed,
“Sexual
attractiveness is the sanest human charity
done
to an odd lump of flesh”
Or do
you still boast of a soul,
diplomatically
invisible and free of wearing a cloth.
I have
been a weirdo, a failed poet, a folded child of combined failure
when
it comes to describing you as a home, the other side,
as my
weirdness, as my failed poetry, as my poetry which will someday fail,
as the
more gifted tragedy they call ‘woman’.
I have
never known and will never know how to praise you.
I am
wild enough in all forms to butcher you into two halves.
The
one which I will savour will be the day.
The Spanish donkey (wooden horse, cavaletto squarciapalle, chevalet) was a torture device associated with the Spanish Inquisition (Tribunal del Santo Oficio de la Inquisición) but not used exclusivly by them. While it was designed for women, accounts of male victims also exist. A naked victim was made to straddle a triangular wooden board with a sharp V-wedge with her legs suspended in the air, either hanging freely or bent backwards, and her arms would usually be tied behind her back to prevent any leverage from being applied to gain relief. They may have been pulled behind her back in a garrucha (strappado or "reverse hanging"), a form of torture in which the victim's hands were first tied behind her back and suspended in the air by means of a rope attached to wrists, thus dislocating both arms). If she was not required to support herself as an extra torture, a rope tied around her chest, neck, or hair would provide stabilization without supporting her weight. Weights were tied to her legs to cause more pain and discomfort or to provide stabilization in lieu of the rope. The device was unobstructive enough to allow most other tortures to be applied at the same time, including leaving a large enough area of the buttocks open for spanking, caning, and whipping. The sides could be roughened or fitted with spikes. The edge of the device was positioned between the slit of her labia to ensure clitoral stimulation, and the device could be raised or lowered to make her stand on her tiptoes or to rest her body weight on her genitals on the device. The torturer would add varying weights to her feet until finally the wedge sliced through her body. The Tribunal of the Holy Office of the Inquisition was established in 1478 by Ferdinand II and Isabella I to maintain Catholic orthodoxy, and replace the previous Inquisition, which had been under papal control since the late 12th century, and was not definitively abolished until 1834, though its period of greatest activity was between ca. 1480 and 1530; the last trial for being a crypto-Jew was in 1818. It charged at least 150,000 people with heresy and executed at leasy 3,000, although its reputation for sadism may have been exaggerted by 19th-century Protestant propagandists. Beginning in 1551 it published "Indexes" of prohibited books, including vernacular translations of the Bible, many of the great works of classical and Spanish literature, and the works of several religious writers who were later made Catholic saints. In addition to heresy, the Inquisition also policed morals, especially in cases of bigamy, a relatively frequent offense in a society that only permitted divorce under the most extreme circumstances; male bigamists were sentenced to five years service as an oarsman in a royal galley, and female bigamists were executed. Since the Inquisition had no budget of its own, its finances depended on the confiscation of goods of the denounced; as one victim protested, "if they do not burn they do not eat."
ReplyDeleteLater, Americans adopted similar, though less lethal, devices. "Riding the rail" was used during the American colonial period and later: The victim was carried through town, often in conjunction with being tarred and feathered, and injuries to the crotch would ledad to the inability to walk without pain. During the Civil War, US guards employed "Morgan's mule" against Confederate prisoners, who were subjected to the treatment a couple hours a day for several days; the legs of a carpenter's saw horse were nailed to the scantling so one of the sharp edges was turned up, the naked prisoner was put upon it, and heavy weights were fastened to his feet; many victims were crippled for life.