The Kafka brothers, tiny men with thin moustaches and matching scars across left cheeks, hardly ever speak to one another and forget the other exists, even though they live in the same house. Now in the bestial winter, they have not spoken in over a month nor have they seen the others’ dark brown eyes. The house is not a …
The phone rings incessantly on this seething August night. It is 3 A.M. but the night call does not disturb my sleep. You see, I suffer from insomnia, my air conditioner is broken, and on this oppressively hot night, I sweat profusely. “Hello,” I growl. “I need your help,” the eerie voice whispers. “Who are you?” “Don’t you know?” “No.” …
& the strangeness of everyday life
blossoms into the vanishing/suffering
& an existential question mark
pirouettes through the air
the butcher’s knife
slices the barren day
& a shattering
spills into nowhere
an oval prison cell
& the emptiness
becomes a transcendental meditation in the park
& a non-guru wishes to bless
& taste the trauma & the sin
a demonic force devours the divine
but suddenly spews celestial light in an otherworldly sign
& waits for the vanishing/suffering
& there we dig. – mh clay
Losing faith, a cracked invisible egg drifting homeless in the universe, G-d slipping away, a raw concept with no reality, only Freudian wishes, and an oxygen-spiritual tank in my dreams, and G-d on trial. Now, it seems I’m homeless too, a wandering creature forgotten by You, no Mother, Father, just G-d on trial. Lost, in a galaxy cul-de-sac, I pray to a make-believe Savior; I pray because there’s nothing left to do but appeal to a Higher Power, or cry incessantly, for no one sees me; or die laughing, inhaling laughing gas in Hell’s vast but desolate prison, where the invisible sit in solitary confinement for eternity, drinking a wasteland of sadness or uproarious madness, and pondering a runaway G-d who betrayed them from the start, a G-d intoxicated with nothing more, perhaps, than a fugitive dream He can never fulfill, a G-d on trial.
Such great expectations we have. Knock, knock!? (no answer…) – mh clay
(the words of a character in the unpublished short story, The Paranoid)
Beautiful corpse, beloved Mother of Creation, you are lovelier than life itself; Lilliputian perfection and little woman of grace, celestial creature and beloved lover, you are my exquisite corpse.
Beautiful corpse, I kiss your cold face and brush against a vast emptiness, a chilling Void. I kiss your vacant face. But you’re not there. I disappear inside your nothingness. Yet when I kiss your majestic mask of death, I become one with you, Mother of Creation, my lover. When I kiss your celestial face, I fall in love forever.
Beautiful corpse, Mother of Creation, you are lovelier than life itself; I close my ebony eyes, kiss your ghostly image, and receive your love. Your icy lips kiss my burning face and when ice and fire meet, we bless each other.
Now, I disintegrate, dissolve, and disappear; I drift into eternity and reunite with you and the sacred earth; I receive the blessing, the bliss, and the perfect moment when we are one; a beautiful corpse in death, in dust, one.
The closer comes that great reunion, the more ready we will be. – mh clay
in my winter home & workplace Berggasse 19 in the Alsergrund district of Vienna upstairs alone in my study surrounded by books & antiquities antediluvian treasures lost truths buried in the tombs of time & still my silent friends speak to me reverberating voices of the past swirling around in the seething sea below the oceanic tempest trapped in the abyss within & now I drift off & plummet into the deep of the psyche
mind-voyager of Vienna & the world beyond outside the chestnut tree looms in the courtyard & the stone staircase waits for you-my patients & family-ascend & follow it to my office or home here & now in this timeless moment of creation in this exploding genesis
Death & Creation, Thanatos & Eros, the Destroyer & Creator dissolving & obliterating the old false ways & fallacious ideas & so it goes we shall face your crippling fears for behold I am the Creator of Psychoanalysis & this is the Apocalypse & the birth of a bold iconoclastic beginning this is a paradigm shift & the smashing of idols this is the revolution-the mind-blasting journey of volcanic revelations from the unconscious & perhaps, the opening of the soul
Slip into this… – mh clay
across the deep of nowhere
the rim of Dreamland
the swirl of the dust devil & the fantastic desert
exquisite chaos galloping through the miasma
the music of trauma
I sing the Blues Apocalypse
the requiem shrieks & shatters the ruins of Un-Reality
the Blues Apocalypse
my dissolving self
the Hidden Holy Haven of Ineffable Nothingness
my immortal soul
glittering in evanescence & everlasting in the perennial dream of Dreamland
Nothing’s amiss in nothing’s bliss. – mh clay
in the metaphysical night
rush slowly through Brooklyn
enter Café Bizarro
secret meeting place in Midwood
wearing a celestial crown of electrodes
a bestial brain-charger that I plug into a wall socket,
melt into invisibility & dissolve & drift & dream
Sweet Phantasmagoria my lovely Dream-Lady dancing & descending into non-existence
while sipping French Vanilla Delirium
taste my Lady Divine
into the omphalos of the universe
oval mirror of irreality
I follow her into the deep of nowhere
perhaps tonight I shall find Heaven
Hell on earth
a hallucinatory stranger a simulacrum or the Chimera-Manager unplugs me
Meet your sweet macchiato of the mind. Your double-shot in that electric place; Alternating Current all the way. (Don’t touch that plug.) – mh clay
in the ghetto
no time is sacred,
no time safe.
comes now at 1st light & through the luminescence of day
comes, evil speaks
Brave one; listen to the rhapsody of death.
Pop, pop, pop in bestial hip-hop.
& find the meek
to otherworldly silence & mortal absence in the swirl of ethereal extinction
this is the time you taste the music of trauma
feast on fear.
is the time you bathe in crimson water
taste the underbelly of sin.
is the time you hear the eerily everlasting music drowning in the key of death.
is the time of the shattering
inside the rhapsody & the requiem
a stranger sings of non-being
gunshots gut the grotesquerie of night & gallop into the deformity of day.
is the time to vanish in the music of trauma.
is the time to die & fly away.
We scare them into wanting escape, then give them nowhere to go. – mh clay
(on reading Muriel Rukeyser’s poem, Seventh Avenue)
the damned bless us with their presence.
opens up like the maw of the fire-breathing Chimera
they come forth
frozen freaks thawing in the sizzling night.
They come forth
fallen creatures of obscurity
roam freely through our streets, the dazzling dreamy
of New York City,
our glittering avenues with their bestial darkness.
shedding the skin of invisibility,
they come forth & bless us with their presence.
we rush away from the damned
they dissolve & vanish in the shadows.
On sultry summer nights in the cauldron of the seething city,
I catch a glimpse of the damned in the corner of my left eye
in a furious flash, the pariah-beasts of New York force-feed me
of sin & suffering
in the city that shrieks the crimson blues
gazing into & through their bruised barren eyes,
see the ominous everlasting wasteland they see
my thick swirl of boyish innocence
my everflowing river of faith
a chasm of doubt
a heavy shroud of anguish covers me crushes my spirit
I too vanish in the shadows until a beautiful alchemy transforms me
if it does
my trinity of-
knowledge pain & will
the light buried in the pitch-black abyss
if I accept the Holy 3
I grow into a transcendence
if I grow
this is the blessing bestowed by the damned
if I receive it
WHO ARE WE
but fugitives from the silent blessings & secret divinity of the damned?
WHO ARE WE
if we don’t face the evil we see?
WHO ARE WE
if we do not receive the blessings of the damned?
WHO ARE WE
if we don’t ask why?
Without mirrors, what can we really see? (Read another of Mel’s missives on his page, a tribute to 9/11 and Marcy Border – check it out.) – mh clay