Philosophy: The Sick Created the Afterworldly.

It was the sick and decaying who despised body and earth and invented the heavenly realm and the redemptive drops of blood: but they took even these sweet and gloomy poisons from body and earth. They wanted to escape their own misery, and the stars were too far for them. So they sighed: ‘”Would that there were heavenly ways to sneak into another state of being and happiness?”

Thus they invented their sneaky ruses and bloody potions. Ungrateful, these people deemed themselves transported from their bodies and this earth. But to whom did they owe the convulsions and raptures of their transport? To their bodies and this earth.

Zarathustra is gentle with the sick Verily, he is not angry with their kinds of comfort and ingratitude. May they become convalescents, men of overcoming, and Create a higher body for themselves! Nor is Zarathustra angry with the convalescent who eyes is delusion  tenderly and, at midnight, sneaks around the grave of his god: but even so his tears still betray sickness and a Sick body to me. Many sick people have always been among the Poetizers and God-cravers; furiously they hate the lover of knowledge and that youngest among the virtues, which is called ‘honesty.” They always look backward toward dark ages; then, indeed, delusion and faith were another matter: the rage of reason was godlike-ness, and doubt was sin.

I know these godlike men all too well: they want one to have faith in them, and doubt to be sin. All too well I also know what it is in which they have most faith. Verily, it is not in afterworlds and redemptive drops of blood, but in the body, that they too have most faith; and their body is to them their thing-in-itself. But a sick thing it is to them, and gladly would they shed their skins. Therefore they listen to the preachers of death and themselves preach afterworlds.

Listen rather, my brothers, to the voice of the healthy body: that is a more honest and purer voice More honestly and purely speaks the healthy body that is perfect -and perpendicular: and it speaks of the meaning of the earth.

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

— Excerpt taken from Nietzsche’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra.


Excerpt — Mirror, Mirror (YA Lit)



Apollo declining my suicide pact.

He calls me crazy and asks— “Are you off your meds, Daphne?”

I wasn’t. I don’t think so.

“But…” I mumble then trail off.

“I know…” He cups my shoulders, “Daphne, whatever it is you think you’ve learnt about me, don’t… just don’t.”

“It’s all an act then?”

“No, it’s not an act.”

“What is it then?

He jerks away, “This is crazy—killing yourself should serve a bigger purpose than just not living.”

“Thank you. It’s always nice to be reminded that your death, like your life is meaningless.”

Don’t do that. He says. “Don’t be that girl who expects everyone to take sides with her suffering.”

I laugh. “Wow. Just when I think I’ve seen it all.”

Peeved: “Wha’thefuck is supposed t’mean?”

“You never tell me about yourself, it’s always about me, me, me. At some point all the attention gets to choke. I’ve never asked you about your past coz it’s your past. It shouldn’t matter but you go around like this now, this present is all you have; living like you’re already dead.”

“There’s a big difference between that and actually killing yourself.”

“That’s not what a suicide pact is. It’s like a chastity ring. Something that tells me am not drowning alone— it’s selfish, but what in this world isn’t?”

His shoulders drop, he heaves a heavy sigh. He wants to understand me from my point of view, it’s the least he can do.

I tell him I’ve reached a point, where I feel tired of wandering in my own skin. I constantly find myself starting to ask questions that lead to only one answer— that ending it all was the only problem in the world worth thinking about. Suicide is the factor that holds the equation of a life as miserable as mine in place.

I don’t think anyone with suicidal thoughts really thinks they can kill themselves. I think they know, and have convinced themselves, that if the time came and they were going too far off the edge, they wouldn’t care enough to stop.

Sometimes I try and convince myself that if I let go of such thoughts I’d be okay, but I know better than to suffer such delusions, those thoughts however sadistic and selfish, are something to rely on, probably the only thing.

Apollo nods like he gets it, but he doesn’t. Am not sure I do either.


Poem: Cidade de Deus (City Of God)


The sun hung like a medallion around God’s neck
pinning itself to the cornice of His omnipresence,
and beneath the shadow of His blink,
squander reigned—
Reverence and slander hula-hooped around
orbits of matched indifference.
and like pigeons lurching from a belfry,
praise sprung from murals and portholes
and went up circling—paper-planes—
reverent chutes opened, shuddering—
delivering praise; lunar and fragmented.
orbed oaths muddled with
pleas, and pious pining.

Tenacity knew no hearse, their mouths defiled
their pleas— gestures infected the stars;
darting, jutted ominous hands,
vined tongues— hoarse soldiers
of faithless clusterings;
spouting insane babble amidst calculated musterings.

I stood at the shore— and watched
the city’s piquant lights jangle,
dousing all revelry in delirium—finitude—
it stood; neglected, at the sea of drying tears,
ailing amongst shivering solitudes
as downcast as a haemorrhoidal cripple,
faith, become a pelvic prolapse—
an abortive circumstance—
bleak as Charon with no oar,
muddling through dark velvets of reprise,
a splash here, a splash there—

And demons slumbered on their pinions fair
hymns became formaldehyde;
syllabled preserver of ancient interceding—
The good and the bad—the free-willed
dwelt naked in the city of oblivion—
salvation and damnation intertwined—
Siamese twins sharing an amniotic caul,
writhing in serpent-strangle of drowning motifs,
placental homicides, where closeness is strangeness.

they humbled themselves in their murky
state of abandoned totem— slave moralities–
they teemed the sewers, feet dragged by knotted
arthritic curtsies, rutted pews, and translucent cathedrals;
as preverbal as a bird with three wings—
their soaring soon daunted itself.

Poem: Untitled.

My soul doesn’t age,
hence I trust not my years,
nor time’s passage—
or the taint of birthdays;
frosted pastry and sparkling candles,
soda pop and birthday cards,
and unfulfillable wishes;
these ruins, wrought from the
ritualed winding of months.
So, better I cut the cord,
Peter-pan myself,
if only to never forget my broken toys
and sink only into my own
fragile delights.

Is intellect the ultimate weapon in the fight for self-preservation?

“In some remote corner of the universe poured out and glittering in innumerable solar systems there once was a star on which clever animals invented knowledge. That was the haughtiest and most mendacious minute of ‘world history”– yet only a minute. After nature had. drawn a few breaths the star grew cold, and the clever animals had to die.

One might invent such a fable and still not have illustrated inefficiently how wretched, how shadowy and flighty, how aimless and arbitrary, the human intellect appears in nature. There have been eternities when it did not exist; and when it is done for again, nothing will have happened. For this intellect has no further mission that would lead beyond human life. It is human, rather, and only its owner and producer gives it such importance, as if the world pivoted around it.

But if we could communicate with the mosquito, then we would learn that it floats through the air with the same self-importance, feeling within itself the flying center of the world.

There is nothing in nature so despicable or insignificant that it cannot immediately be blown up like a bag by a slight breath of this power of knowledge; and just as every Porter wants an admirer, the proudest human being, the philosopher thinks that he sees the eyes of the universe telescopically focused from all sides on his actions and thoughts.

It is strange that this should be the effect of the intellect, for after all it was given only as an aid to the most unfortunate, most delicate, most evanescent beings in order to hold them for a minute in existence from” which otherwise, without this gift they would have every reason to flee as quickly as Lessing’s son.

That haughtiness which goes with knowledge and feeling, which shrouds the eyes and senses of man in a blinding fog, therefore deceives him about the value of existence by carrying in itself the most flattering evaluation of knowledge itself. Its most universal effect is deception; but even its most particular effects have something of the same character.

The intellect as a means for the presentation of the individual, unfolds its chief powers in simulation; for this is the means by which the weaker, less robust individuals preserve themselves, since they are denied the chance of waging the struggle for existence with horns or the fangs of beasts of prey.”

                                       — Nietzsche from “On Truth & Lie in an Extra-Moral Sense.”

“Echo’s Lament for Narcissus.” — Excerpt– House of Dyes.


She’s an angel with demons.

Around her; a silhouette of shadows. A night with no stars. No twilight. The pupils of a blind eye.

Darkness had closed around her like hands brought together in reverent prayer. The shadows are her elements. And she is comfortable in this thin slither where rays of light run parallel to each other.

The dimness converges around her head like a halo. The air, the space, is full of melody, widening in broken spirals and holding time captive where the spirals do not connect. And the wind lends chorus to this scene of mourn. It carries around the silky ribbons knotted in her hair, and communes with them. Her dress fits around her loosely it’s no longer a dress, more like the negative shadow of her darkness.

This high, the element of night shouldn’t be darkness. It’s a vagueness. A black shroud thing whose vastness betrays form, whose seams wrap around universe and vortex of space.

Several layers abstracted from dream, infinity poised against unfulfilled matter. The answers she looks for, and the questions I do not want the answers to, are irrelevant.

She is too far gone. She has writ her name in the darkness, and yet she is darkness. And I, what may I be? A shadow?

A consequence. A result. A distillate.

I am late. I was always meant to be late to this midnight dance of devils.

She hears me approach, she expects me, she has already spoken to me. We have already danced this dance and stepped on our toes.

I have already failed to save her, what we do, now, is just act out something we have already rehearsed.

I feel too close to her, I constitute her boundaries. But I cannot really touch her.

I see her inch towards the ledge, her toes clench around the nicked edge. The basal golem stands poised for the leap. I can feel its shoulders tense.

She looks down. The crack-alley below lends the bleakness a lost depth perception. From this high you cannot see the cardboards and continuous loop of fellatio and knifings. You cannot see the prim grimness of people fucking each other. And fucking each other up. Up here, the immediate hell below is abyss-like, but if you lowered your foot, your heel would crunch down on the hypodermics and knee-pads and condom wrappers and crack-pipes.

“Hell is immediate… And reality is urgent… But none of them are real.” She breaks the silence. But it’s not a relief.

As bad as it had got, it could still get worse.

“You are doing this for all the wrong reasons,” I tell her.

“Reality and abstract—dreamspace and that dark conceptual space circling the concept of light—they’re all shadows of themselves—mirrors of mirrors. They’re all irrelevant if they take hostages…” she turns to me, her face a glimmer, “I won’t be your hostage.”

I have taken on a form, something as close to human as possible, nothing that would pass as mortal and insult her high opinion of my lofty self. Am the cybrid cloned from the persona of the Lady Saryel, a heretic poetess and artist of when Earth was still called Earth. Her paintings inspired the Rapture, through which we now survive.

She was humble to a fault.

I hold out my hand and nudged my presence closer to her.

“It does not have to be this way. You do not have to die so I can…” I assure her.

“Resurrection requires death, sacrifice requires blood. A life for a life—”

“—I am not alive.”

“Still…” She looks down. Then back at me.

The uneasiness in her could be vertigo, but no one suffers from that anymore, not that it was ever a thing. The uneasiness isn’t what I want it to be. It’s not doubt. It’s not a faltering. It’s nothing close to comfort. But I should know better.

She knows better.

She wants to know how this ends…

Somehow she has forgotten that nothing ever ends. Nothing ever begins. That eternal return isn’t just a concept, and gravity is nothing but a failing experiment.

She was one of us, the mechanics put in place to stop the ball from bursting loose of its lever. She sighs. As though she can read my thoughts the way I can read hers. I don’t dream so she can’t possibly know. She can’t gleam the magnitude of her actions, even those preceding this feeble attempt to rip resonance and implication from her own unlived history.

Death, or what she thinks is death is a power that lends implication to its receptacle, life. The threshold she means to pass would lend itself meaning in her passing, for there is no meaning to be lent.

There is no usury in the merchant mess of reality and abstract.

“There’s nothing you can do to stop this.” She says. As she moves along the ledge, further away from my lunging grasp. Not that I would lunge at her.

The wind has grown pale, static, like it has been affected by her motionlessness. The slurred silence is its primal vocabulary.

But this here is nothing primal or that can be wrapped around, contained, in any vocabulary.

“The reason you have not plunged to your supposed death, is not because you are sure I cannot stop you.” I assure her. Dare her. Throw down the gauntlet, as they used to say.

“I can’t save you.”

“Neither can you save yourself.”

“I don’t need saving.” She falters, but balances herself quickly. Steadily. The stealth of a rope dancer dancing on a flurry of seesawing feathers.

“And I do not need you to treat me like a concept. I was never meant to complete you, to fulfil you or to save you—“

“—Is that why you chose to leave—“

“—It is why I chose to be here now. This present. This reality.”

“Too bad, I really coulda really used you, ah, arghh,—“ She tries to balance herself.

And I just stand there. Present. Absent. Caught in a stagnant tide. Disbelieving in the miracle of consequence. My faith in causality unfaltered even though I am it’s biggest critic. It’s biggest fanatic.

And I stand there. All I have to do is lunge.

“Wai—wait—I nee—shit.” She slips. “Saaav—“

 And the wind and the darkness and the abyss down below swallow what is the remainder of her plea like the dying intensity of a fading lisp.

And I stand there.

I just…stand…