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Elegy on a Night Party

Beautiful absurdity!
Elegy on a Night Party

The paradigmatic shift in the conceptual map of my liberal and revolutionary platforms of radicalism, existentialism and humanism make things aesthetically absurd and practically effective. Living in the present and progressive tenses of time and space I tend to contradict my ‘Other’ (purely theoretical), who was conceived as a result of Theory and Philosophical classes.

Receding past bequeaths an un-ravished beauty of poetry within my foster memories of great poets and their offspring - poems. I’m going through a ‘deep romantic chasm which slanted down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!’ 

I feel Coleridge, the great poet whom I resemble with the mystic feelings and visions of mystic abyss. I am living the life at its zenith of vivacity and I celebration of soul. I do it at-

A savage place! As holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:
And’mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
(‘Kubla Khan’ ~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge) 

The purgatory pain I've conceived as a result of my infinite fight against the stagnant system of society - superannuated existence of incongruous traditions and practices; inception of anarchist Methodism and premature abortion of zeitgeist - lead me unto the solitary islands of floating operas in the endless existential conflict of restless humanity.

Monstrous shapes of pyramids and modern structural marvels amaze me for no reason, but for the nothingness of mine compared to their 'monstrousness'. I like to be under the mega structures because I feel the laxity of the pace of the time beneath these structures. They say time never runs around the pyramids of Gaza. They are right because I do feel it when I face the 'almightiness' of great mountains and the vastness of might waters - they are also part of this mighty constellation. 

Eyes closed, mind emptied; soul heightened, body relaxed; they sing the hymns in the chapel, where I find not many, but a few. They sit on the pews - as if they missed something from the usual course of time and the aisles of events. It seemed that somewhere they resembled me in many ways of reflecting life. 

The archetypal configuration of my thoughts in to a pragmatic style often brings a constellation of inexplicable ‘events’. Poly-chromatic-life on the floors of bars and streets with the luminescence of neon lights, incinerating and watching the secrets of night, I walked on the long stretched-out concrete pavement stretching unto the pointless edge of the haste-contest of the humanity. I found no one, but lost souls singing and lusting the unconscious miseries and mysteries of burdened life. They lament on the ‘hamertia’(Tragic flaw) and ‘peripetia’(A sudden change of events or reversal of circumstances, especially in a literary work) of their real-life drama in which they even don’t realize their roles and where life becomes nothing but a written play, they play and play. I hear nothing but sounds. 

II


They sing the funeral song on the death of their Day, “Day is dead, let's celebrate the birth of the Night from vivacity to ecstasy and finally a fall from the seventh heaven unto the abyss of dreams and lust.” Having nothing to do in the nights of my ‘usual routine’, I had my same chair on the same corner, a platform above the dance floor of the Seventh Heaven party club at the Down Town. 

Everything in me tends to go on to become something else. The perceive aesthetics of life and the disposals of proposals from the mighty eyes of Almighty, I placed myself on the corner for no reason. My soul is impatient with itself, as with a bothersome child; its restlessness keeps growing and is forever the same. She holds spring against her breast and stares at me with sad eyes as if I’m a son of all other seasons other than spring. I don’t know who the she in my life is, but I keep watching and following her, the unknown.

I saw her coming with her boyfriend (maybe). The cultural abrogation of modern life style, misinterpreted with the western culture, often contradict the existence of philosophies of daily life. She is here to party. She ordered two glasses of martini and for a sudden warm up she took his hands and dropped them in between her thighs. They are partying all around me. They are merging into one entity of non-existence, where I witness and stand as a comfortably numb Guest of their love. They are not lovers; she titillates other ‘guest boyfriends’ of the party hall too. They are reaching to the zenith of romance and I saw her ravishing eyes peeping at me, the man who’s witnessing her ‘play’. 

I smiled. She doesn't love him and he is a guest for her tonight, to please her night and to escape from the fear of loneliness, she hired him. She is a beautiful girl, without name, but with some name. She carries the names of her roles and pains of pleasures; she walks unto the door of her grave. She never wants to die, but she 'aestheticizes' the romance of death. 

We vanished in to the thick light of the night, where I took her to the aesthetics of lust and pain. I never thought she would leave that ‘hired boyfriend’ before she gets pleasured. She told me the story of her lives. She doesn't have a life, but lives. He might be searching for her in the crowd of ‘hired-friends for night’, a night where he would go with everyone in search of his lady love who left him on the half way to the zenith of pleasure. Why’s she with me now? I never asked her to join me or leave him. Sometimes she likes someone who is different from her. Walking through the light of neon bulbs and entertaining the olfactory perception of lascivious traces of bodies, which are wreathed with the scents of night, I opened the door of my modern hut for my lonely night guest. We are hired by the principles of carnality and of the aesthetics of night romances. She is a guest for me, only a guest who left some man for me for an unknown reason of her own, which she keeps as a secret of her lives and nights of neon lights. 

The lonely guest of the neon lights and of the celebrant of the olfactory property of desires of the flesh is gone now unknown. Rhythm of her footsteps parted my ears with pleasure and gratitude, but not in a hope of meeting sometime again in the midst of plenty, but lonely states of night lives in the party clubs or night bars of the Down Town. She disappeared in to the thick sounds of dates, plans and tomorrows. She never unfolded the name of her day lives, she said some name which I knew false during our journey towards the paramount of desire and pleasure. She kissed me with her crimson thread lips of desires and left without a word.

The handicapped cigars of last night’s fire and burning on the lips of desires; the left-overs of dirty jokes and stimulus sounds; lie on the floor of mind for their burial. There lies the water of amnesia in the half used glasses of fires and spirits. Shadow of mine draws a dirty picture of a sybaritic soul on the walls of a modern hut under the light of 40 watts bulb. You, my dear musical machines welcome sweetly the most beautiful sleep in to my life and Let me sleep now! Bohemian rhapsody plays behind the tumultuous sensations of my unfinished night, the serenity incinerates in to the core of my tumultuous. The protest of my life compromises the music of melodies and rhapsodies of Bohemian sagas. I feel serene, for the sounds revolutions and cry for freedom merges in to the revolution and commotion with in my soul. 

Desires have become like the filthy under wares. Though the excess of the music of desire overflows the sea of anticipation, which I have been carrying since my puberty, in my life, I’ll wait my dear. Sleepless nights of the city life rages the genitals and beats the drum for the beds and bars of the brain where I bed with my lust and drink the waters of desires, my conscious has failed to dominate the inclination of inclinations and desires of flesh. 

We chain the two waters, in abyss of mind, raging each other to apologize and part from the unknown shores of mind in the winter season; we die in the waters of lifeless routine of greetings, apologies, meetings. 

I failed to wipe out the tears from your eye lids with my lips, even when I was fighting with the self and perceptions of conceptual ideologies, dogmas, creed, and self-designed philosophies of my life, I was selfish. 

‘Useless’ semen ejaculated during the rages of youth and old age; the ‘sins’ (though I don’t believe in sins) of desires and the fall from the paramount of Venus unto the chasm of liberation and freedom of body from the varieties of bondage left a stain on the soul for a remembrance of eternal love and desire for life. We want to live and taste the nectar of life, desire, pleasure, lust and love. We are humans, slaves of desires and Gods. 

The lust of the sea buried your name I have carved on the shore. And what else I have for you to remember other than the tears dropped down to wipe out the sins of the earth and of the Desires of flesh. And obviously everyday things happen in the world that can't be explained by any law of things we know. That’s how things happen; they come from nowhere and leave no trace.

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