Love! Gifted me a world of vacuity...
Here, I can't breathe.
Here, I don't know myself.
There is no way out from here.

It is like a black-hole.
I'm alone here.
All I can have is our founding memories,
Nothing else.

Where are you?
You don't wish me to be with you?

The world of vacuity,
where I lost myself !

©malavikavipin

I observe: “Our sentimental friend the moon!
Or possibly (fantastic, I confess)
It may be Prester John’s balloon
Or an old battered lantern hung aloft
To light poor travellers to their distress.”
  She then: “How you digress!”

And I then: “Someone frames upon the keys
That exquisite nocturne, with which we explain
The night and moonshine; music which we seize
To body forth our own vacuity.”
  She then: “Does this refer to me?”
  “Oh no, it is I who am inane.”

“You, madam, are the eternal humorist,
The eternal enemy of the absolute,
Giving our vagrant moods the slightest twist!
With your air indifferent and imperious
At a stroke our mad poetics to confute—”
  And—”Are we then so serious?”

Our hour is one, rest is rest
once arrest is rested
ascension is now magic
If insanity tires and fails
is sanity trying without succeeding?

For instance, recall daisies,
or if you have not seen one, so much the better.
Paint me a crass picture and sleep
on the shallow crevasse. Stilt through
the orchard and search there: nothing still.
Even the nothingness is form-fitting, and thus,
your vestigial image of daisies. Mold something
out of the vacuity, and there a retrograde sculpture
will wind back to clay. Cornerstones have your name,
and your name even so, has taciturnly placed stones.

Stones. These tiny bodies that lay, undemanding,
scourged by the rapid passage of a carriage.
I wait there, with them, still thinking of daisies.
I know of a child, cylindrically obtuse, in front of the mirror.
Have you seen yourself in the hazy windows
of the Metro? What do you see? I still see daisies.
Or people with heads of daisies. But remember your
forethought of daisies? They are nothing. I am a beheaded daisy
in the lackadaisical wind of Summer. There is nothing to gain
here but the sadness of cold passing. And the child that I am speaking
of, his name, Magno. Sturdy like the rucksack he’s carrying,
lovelessly trundling altogether with the pipes and the
handrails, almost signaling the alarm without warning.

This uncared-for sultry evening decides to splinter
itself against the masses. Again, the daisies appear to me,
this time, in heady form rogue with peripatetic fragrance.
Magno used to unearth daisies and give them to her
mother when he was stiflingly young – he hustled through
the carefully placed furniture. Whatever happened to him,
I know not. And just like the daisies we have come to know now,
trains that do not belong to anyone, and the daisies too, that go
unheard of and unknown to the behest of the city,
have gone into the subtle beginning of everything
that once started in itself, the form of splendor. Nothing.

Some start with ****, (I am reflecting now)
or nic on the breath,
but it ends in cadaverine,
all my heroes have been lost to me.

And as decomposition begins( I am angry now)
they look happy,
cuz a skull always grins,
a slow way to die,
as if doused with caustic lye,
the spiritual man is dead,
black vacuity in their eyes.

Now their souls will sin( I am staying away now)
their tongues will boast,
they mock the heavens,
but tempt the crows,
their minds are seared,
their heart debased,
any memory of my friends is all erased. (attending a funeral now)

A spiteful taste of malice

Slithers across my tongue

Secrecy spoke in volumes

Before the words begun

This sensation it saunters

Into solar vacuity

Perpetrating sheer, faugh

Acts of congruency

In vain contempt I wallow

In the pillars of infamy

Whilst faint my ears waltz

To vindictive symphonies

Prolonged my strife be by humanity

Whilst I attempt to appease

As they flaunt their existence

To miscellaneous degrees

The English language resembles

Clouds of hyperbolic fallacies

In light of this hapless universe

They share an index of analogies

From behind cracked windowpanes

I peer at all that is inane

With repugnance I am slain

As I wince with disdain

I scarf reality in intervals

Reaping jagged grains of salt

Though helpless I am left

Pessimistic by default

© 2011 (All rights reserved)

Once more the Big Bang occurs
Each time spurred on by the spark
of the sleeping child's dream of reality
A naked singularity inflates
at an exponential rate
Subsisting on the substrate
of her slumbering psyche

Her neural networks create galaxies
Energy expended directly from REM sleep
spent on the formation of solar systems
and stars
comets crash land carrying key components
for the conditions of future life on Earth
and Mars

Within the primordial soup
Of the third rock from the sun
Residing in the ocean
-life has just begun
Microbes photosyntesize carbon
Giving Earth an atmosphere rich with oxygen
Arbitrary factors steer evolution
Tetrapods mutate from fish
becoming amphibious

Exodus.

Something steps onto the surface
- for the first time
Two billion years have elapsed
mere minutes move in the girl's mind

It was maybe thirty minutes since
she bade her mom goodnight
The child sleeps tight
Meanwhile a caveman strikes flint on timber
The resulting embers form a fire
Providing him with warmth and some light

Callous winds from outside conquers
the comfort of her comforter
A chill permeates the child's skin
This feeling reverberates all the way down
The first ice age begins
A frozen world of snow
For eleven thousand years
Her mother creeps in closing her window
The ice age ends

External stimuli
affects those things which rely
on her to sustain sleep

The 21st century is past the prime of its peak
The greenhouse effect from carbon
Corrupts the ozone, making it weak
Wars carry on over resources or religion
Water levels rise and countries
remain in division
Governments pick payouts over compassion  
Indifferent to what happens
With their most vulnerable citizens
Letting most rot in for-pay private prisons
Yet far removed from all these chaotic conditions in this society,
...The child still snoozes,ever so quietly

There's no more gods In the 2,001st century.

In their place, now only harmony and grace
Humanity banded together as a unified race
galvanized toward a single, common goal
To flee the dying planet
before it swallows them all whole

A contingency plan is put in place
For when the scientists fail
and the Earth collapses under its own weight
A ship will be sent deep into outer space
containing embryos and astronauts
suspended In a cryogenic state

The sun assaults the closed blinds
Testing the resolve of the resting child...

Two astronauts are jolted awake
En route,they believe
To a viable new world to habitate
Earth imploded five decades past
But with mass embryonic incubation
-they will revive humanity
Saving it from the brink
of all-out annihilation,
All that hinges on is if they can first safely reach:
Their destination

A routine glance
at procedural scans on the screen
Shows they shifted an exigious sum
while they were sustained in cryogenic hibernation
This detour turned exponential;
when you tally up the years
They fail to attain any feelings aside from fear
for this journey they must now embark
a single line of corrupted code controls their ship,
"The Noah's ark"
These last two have veered so far
from what would have been humanity's
new home
-With no way to course correct
They suspected their task would take a toll
But they were not expecting anything
like this:

Adrift towards a rift in reality
The ship's malfunction
steered them in its wake
It's too late now:
-far too close they can't escape
That dark incision distends itself
gourging on time and space
There is a beauty to how things end
Watching superheated gas and dust aggregate
Creates an accretion disk concealing vacuity
-Yet shines much brighter
than an angel's halo
The two astronauts strap in to the cockpit
With front row tickets to the show:
...just how far down the black hole,
         are you willing to go?

The mother returns,
fully opening the blinds
Cuddles next to her resting child...

Meanwhile Inside the singularity
The last human sees a secret and weeps
He's peering beyond the veil now
Into a little girl's room who is asleep
Yes, he sees her clear
her mother spoons her nestling near,
Shakes her shoulders softly,
whispers into her daughter's ear,
-As she does every morning day,
" what did you dream of this time, my dear?"

She kisses her daughter on the cheek
The little girl yawns as she speaks
Birds outside have started to sing:

"Momma, I think I dreamed of...Everything?"

His eyes close
The man gives in to that sweet release
All of her internal creations ceast
Consumed
as the child is wrenched from the well
Of her own unconscious infinity
The pocket dimension contained within her
Is decimated as she arises
All that energy then metabolizes
to sustain her life
And when she rests it will be divested
once again
To create a new dimension-
as it does every night

Eternal Bloom
Entire galactic timetables and scales contained
In the slumbering soul of a six-year old
She will grow old
She will wither
She will die
As the world's which reside in her do,
When she wakes.

- when she meets her fate
On that operating room table
at the age of 98
the light which emanates at the end of the tunnel

Was merely a father's mistake.

Illumination cast killing darkness
In the bedroom of his home
he absentmindedly turned up the brightness
While playing on his phone
She takes one last breath then fades to grey
In sync with the father stowing his device away
Not alone in his room
he snuggles in for the night
-And can't help but smile
Unaware of the realms
that depend on the dreams

Of his own unassuming, resting child.

-

Stare at the universe for a little while, you’ll see
Something resembling you and me: a quite sobbing vacuity
Draining all pellucid stars of luster and bravery.
I won’t be home for the rest of my life, hard as it is to take in,
Something went missing in what never was
That all the timbers strip away at the passing years
In anger and patience that slapped me in the face
When I said I’d never be happy again. My pockets are full
Of icy penance for crimes distance and apathy revealed.
Shimmer do the walks ways in the missing parts of the night sky
Shaped, somehow, by you and every blazing heart
Is a comet to earth: ******* vibrantly a poorly strung bandage.
And every light to cross the concourse of hopeless prophesy
And my constructs of relative suffering, an oil-light suicide.
History is always-already the behest of malignancy, but it’s sweet
The protection as I’ve weaponized every interaction to be,
We could have been cause-and-effect and danced like
Idols, gods, and fools in the sky of our experience, but
The God of Small Things, I, bear down on dis-eases rejection.
Like surgery, the tiny cells bereft of the cause of blood, the cause
Of complaint, can do nothing but new hearts reject.

He wore nothing other than black even in the summer, his crystal blue eyes reflected ocean-hues and had jet black ink that could slightly be seen under the sleeve of his tattered and torn Rolling Stones tee. That boy, he was quite a mystery, had the body language of a jigsaw puzzle not wanting to be mended, although it was all opaque to me, others saw him impenetrable, however, I read him like my favorite book. This boy is exactly like me intelligent yet covert, impassive and esoteric yet a universe full of secrets and unspoken thoughts. It seemed as if his soul was somber and consumed nothing but vacuity. But I saw a masterpiece, a messily painted work of art, and that was the beauty of it. Others saw chaos on a canvas while I saw every watercolored hue that completed the exotic illustration that was, Luke.

i am roused by paltry gasps
in the furrow of my consternation--
dizzying, still,
is the puzzling weight of vacuity,
my shapeless existence
where the wind has blown the weakness from your heart
and you've settled like ceiling-fan dust;
invisible, i asphyxiate
in sultry bated breaths
like the acrid smoke that seems to leave your lips
so romantically,
so gleefully anesthetized
in our secret place
where we pollinate the emptiness,
legs sticky with desire
and rapt with a fleeting symbiosis.
we awaken in ambiguity,
the taste in my mouth
is your yesterday's heaving tongue.
little lamb, sad-eyed baby,
thrush with too much touch,
always leaving in that heavy-eyed hurry.
your sweater brushes against my face,
i smell the paint that's stained a cold and ringed finger.
my senses are frenzied and willfully discordant
until you open the front door
and dissolve away--
dissipate into the realness of the day.
in my vapidity, i wait.
i wait.

VOID
My blue bicycle breezing over the grass
silence surrounded, colors faded
I saw the void gaining mass
knees went weak, I pled
VOID
What lay beyond the darkness
of the mysterious black sphere
I didn't fathom what I saw, not even a guess
The green grass went sere
VOID
Should I surrender to the sans-khrôma
maybe it was free of war and worries
utopia itself opened to us
or was it an otherworldly bleakness
VOID
I took a step into the vacuity
There wasn't a deity
nor the promised eutopia
VOID

I wonder what it’d be like to stand on a human face
Would my foot sink right through their flesh
Leave a hole circled with broken teeth
Gnawing the empty air?
Seems no different
Someone writhes on the floor in a club
Is pronounced dead the next day
Exorcised *******
It’s where they go to get ****** up right?
Tequila and lime
Body shot
Set it on fire
A worm died so some middle-aged manager
Could fail at recapturing her youth
****** up, let’s get ****** up
Bones bleeding through the sleeves
Stuffing flesh into mouths
The river overflows with fast food wrappers
And rotting couches
Sit on the pavement and ***** in your lap
It’s what you came here for
Is she going to jump?
Take a picture
Hope the whole roof collapses
We’re trying to ******* sleep, a neighbour yells before slamming the door
Feels awkward and steps off the roof
Lies on the floor of her room
Slits her wrists instead
He’d been angry since he moved in
Kept finding apple cores in his yard
Sometimes it’s Christmas here
And the entire city decides to take part in a ritual
Where the vacuity of existence is concentrated in the shopping districts, so everyone can feel awful together
It’s really something
A black heat descends on Dunedin
And smothers all the children in their cribs
Teenagers light up and skate through the throngs of blank-faced adults
Too deeply enamoured with percentage discounts to even notice their bags filling with the blood of foreigners
Did you know one million Chinese children die a year from vitamin A deficiency?
Good thing we’re buying all these Chinese made goods
Sometimes the smog is so strong
And the water so red
That everyone begins to think the clear days are the strange ones
Sometimes the power poles collapse and generations of children are born sterile and genderless
The fathers all choke their wives with plastic bags
And no one questions them
This existence is nauseating
No wonder your mother hung herself
No wonder your uncle ***** your sister then hacked his own head off
None of this is real
A guy was hospitalised because someone mistook him for a child molester
Smashed his face up so much he lost seven teeth and got brain damage
He’d been a famous writer before
And now he can’t speak
Isn’t that the funniest thing you’ve ever heard?
Doesn’t this existence make you want to breakdown into laughter and throw your head against the wall until there’s nothing left?

The choir rang out and filled the halls with a hollow note
There voices were merely a dull hum in the background

Kneeling and looking past my reflection against the marble floor
Almost in a meditative state I welcomed the vacuity I found myself in

It was not until the second time did I realize
Drops of rain water were tapping me on the neck

I was positioned directly under a crack in the basilica's ceiling.
Even in a sanctuary I could not escape what awaited me outside.

Found it quite fitting, actually.
Even though I am inside my life is still being rained on.

It's been over thirteen billion years
since we big banged into existence.
The universe is starting to get cold.

And like waiting toys abandoned
by some attention-deficient Owner,
things are starting to get cold.

We make our little bonfire of religion,
of science, of philosophy (other planks of wood)
to keep warm. Ah, warmth at last.

That He'd save us,
or We'd save ourselves,
or we'd explain everything away.

The night is cold. Stars. Are they
God's watchful eyes? But we do not
need a God

to know that they are
spheres of gravity-bound (but what
is our centre of gravity?) plasma.

Whatever empty space someone forgotten to fill,
we like liquids rush to fill up the vacuity.
But it's an artifice. The train is civilisation-bound.

Our hands and feet are tied to the cold, steel tracks.
We struggle against our lives to escape.
But the train is civilisation-bound.

So that when we look to our children
to inherit this world - which is false,
which is as concocted as myth -

it must be bittersweet to give them a better world.
This world we created can crumble like a candy empire.
Child-like imbecility. No happily-ever-afters.

The night is cold, still.
Stars.
Thirteen billion years.

We deny that it's Cold.
We explain it away.
Existential therapy.

Come fill the void beside my heart
Wide as the river valley spreads
Still as hillside without wren's song
Make full this space where you belong

Who will sit down beside my tree
Enjoy the shade of my misery
Communicate what turns their world
Help my pain fade to ecstasy

Come fill the void beside my heart
Vacuity so deep and wide
Become the clouds containing joy
Please sit beside my lonesome tree

Water it while you water me

The drudgery of not
The travail of unseen clot
A metaphor for naught

There must be a monicker to this lump in my neck
How much substance or material to tell the tale of this eminence fleck

We all pretend sentiment takes form
When vacuity is the fortune for all
Most feel dejected by this thought
I will take my pillow, comforter, and universes call

The Earth went silent,
                                       it was the aftermath of the End;
the crooked shadows crept between all spaces,
                                                         ­                         then the Cloudfolks returned.
They stood still watching at us,
                                                      it was during an August eclipse.
"Pitiful are the sleepers who don't dream." Spited to me one of them.
                                                           ­                                                        So s/he took my hands and gave me a sphere,
s/he told me:
                      "You shall not swear your life in vacuity."
And so I knew it was time,
                                               it was time of tempests, and beautiful extinctions,
it was a time of grief and sharp pain.
                                                           ­      Their eyes were black as void,
those fuzzy white cloaks were cold, and those hands...
                                                        ­                                        And before I could even awake, one sitted in my bed and whispered gently to my ear:
"Embrace the Omega."
                                        And so I did.

I. You wrote no manuscripts but somehow, whenever I move to inch myself over the sofa, I can feel your soft blow indent me over the edge of this quiet. The quiet disquiets the quiet – is something you would have said over *******, over lamenting the death of a lamppost outside, over wanting to be stranded underneath the awning of a dilapidated canopy of trees outside. Over the slowdance and the turntable, over Belle and Sebastian.

II. I left the faucet running just in case you were to be awakened by a myoclonic ****. It helps to hear the sound of water gushing as it protrudes calmness. I would have intruded you, but your absence first lifted into the vacuity of rooms unspoken of. I inspected the impressions left on the bed and left the tousled sheets as they were. Questions discerned. Answers disarmed. Somewhere between inquiry and certainty, there is a body hauled right out of the alarming bedazzlement. We were both gutting each other as the light from the television spilled right onto our naked bodies, stuck in a fucklock. And then I got up to the slain body of the morning.

III. I muse you over Wittgenstein – separated by a makeshift bookshelf. I felt a revulsion for slender straps for watches. The face you wore that day was white. Now you’re as pale as a July tapestry.

IV. I bought new venetian blinds today.

V. Somewhere along the steep ***** I heard the machination of an arrival. The dogs were randy outside. It must be you, approaching. I fingered the slats to reveal a little source of Sun. It was the daily paper. I have forgotten all arrivals are the same.

VI. If I were to blueprint this house with my sentiments – we would be sleeping apart. Your bed, of cold metal. Mine, of sandalwood. Erasures last longer than revisions. I know your presence as the familiar clangor of the same instruments you use for preparations are the same ones fondled. Right after the investigation, your immaculate neglect transfers itself into a sly translation of perfume from a day’s work, winnowing my faculties.

VII. I made a blueprint of this house with my sentiments – you somewhere in the outskirts of town, I deep within the suburban. I have a question for balconies I do not want to answer. At what height should be a balcony situated? What if the scrumptious fall is but elevation?  Will the intensity of the Sun pulverize the very fixated shadow on the corner of my parched shoulder? If not, should I take the balcony down?

I wanted to revise the blueprint, but no. Erasures last longer than revision – I dream of cities expunged
when the day ends.

I’ll plunge into placid vacuity
and swim among the stars
in search of your abiding eyes.

The greatest eye, seeing as I see: infinity infinitely,
Passing and being amidst mere seconds, touching glassily
Fringes of the smallest universe of me,
The happier side of the sublime, distant fingers of distant peaks
Combing the edge of time.

I’ve stared at the stars too long, we saw them dance out of space
More dimensions than a singularity, for it opens up
As hearts do in each other placed.
From fixéd gaze and placidity, I stride in awe to you
We could feel one with acatelepsy

Have what some consider few, and few consider all
Intertwined by the darkness between the dying stars’
Existence, in that both skins a whole that glistens.
Of that place, I in constant drawn, that vacuity, that candoris

A promise that, regardless what season, my face feels apricity
And careless are the places as numinous are the lariots
Whether through Hell or usurping Pheobus’ chariot
Some hope may birth within the open dark
The treasured lunar retinue, a web of inspiration, generations to come;

That’s what keeps me hopeful here, a shy star in the void
Across it all, across life-lines I shall have,
Before you ever meet me, long since dissipated—
Come out to see me and play, or are you simply? Belated?
In that web, the growing ever-on, generative swan-songs,

And the one I wish on may befall a stellar death, my sky
Alighted by one less, a part of me to the cold and shiftless earth
That though the stars may fall, these hearts may flash chimerical
Etched limpid in the palimpsest of memory, they are, they will
Hearts of the little universe, consumptive and resilient

And kept ever on, there beyond Jupiter and his moons thereof
In which chaos finds itself bathed and bound by Love.

how did you ever come to this—
is never the question,
she clinks her glass on the russet tablework and crinkles her nose
onto some cold draft.

some answers i keep to myself:

it is not a very honorable question.
a noble man might ask,
where shall this bring you?
now that you are... this state of being?

the answer i said:
after a while, i have been having
dreams of white parasols
cerements being whacked
into aching scabs on the skin
of an old tendril - that laburnum
where a pebble of raindrop
slides freely!
and i uttered shyly of my place,
i once fell in that speed
and came to no crash.
and now here are words - just words,
pure loneliness, or say, a preordained vacuity waiting to be filled— no,
wait, it isn't! a feral with diurnal eyes
never asleep, always awake!
no, still not very apt.

i have fallen like this, and it was
also i, waiting for myself
at the end of each
line, shattering at word's break.

The blood moon beckons a bitter hue
Rising above the frothy winter dew.
In the night- luminated a single room.
My only solace in the suppressive city gloom.

(Staring in the nocturnal vacuity:
A grey hazy mirror passing in my soul.)

Blades of silver steel
Puncture my mind, with
Seething desire I long to wield.

Withholding the bitter sorrow
I take the blade in hand,
To cleanse me from the ‘morrow.

Slitting of flesh ensue,
The ****** begins.
Skinning to the bone to make me anew.

From head to toe,
Cut to shreds.
No one will feel the pleasure I know.

Squirting from my anatomy.
The warm gush of fluid.
The spermatozoa-blood spewing over me.

For the final incision-
Off with my ****** “member.”
Pressure relieved.

****** achieved.

                                                  THE END…

we have fallen right
through the hurl
of this inner breaking.

    it is like we have collapsed
    into a twine of hands -
    spoken before the flowering
    of the twilight.
    we have awakened before
    the petalled corolla of the
    moon yields the peril of
    this void's statelessness.

in your eyes,
  so much in you is stellar.
  a florilegia of waxing images
   burning at the tip of this
    lunar flare, derailed from
   their orbits and left trundling
     in the vacuity.
in your eyes are the moon
   and the sun, the twist in
their shared iridescence,
   birthing out all your stars.

black faded ink on parchment paper
these were the days
we knew dreams and eternity.

coffee stains on white fitted sheets
these were the days
we knew bliss and love

broken frames and burning cheeks
these were the days
we knew agony and nightmares

tequila shots, filling luggages and hasty departures
that was the day
I knew vacuity and broken promises

“I played it my symphonic tunes,
Far away right from my garden,
Making its heart dance the rhythm,
As my heart was severed from the burden
Of sorrow,
For in her, I was stuck!

In the garden, I planted this tree for it- the bird,
On the branches, I weaved a nest,
For it to come, rest and stay,
But I can’t tell whether it stayed or flown,
I’m confused!”

Under this fateful soliloquy,
That shoved me away from my allies,
Made me wander lonely like a snake,
Fearlessly in this botanical garden,
I’m confused !

I eagerly foreshadow the portraits,
Hoping for a relief of the fateful moments,
But a blackout of vacuity reins the mind.
Though the rains shower my tear drops,
And I seem okay, but I’m confused.

Open up my queen, redress my quest,
Via mail, tale, letter, song or even a yodel,
Your silence is my compunction, killing my soul,
I only have you, we actualize our dream,
Without you, I’m confused!