Again, and Again
---in remembrance of M.A. Cayanan's 'This, And This'
For Liem Vu Duc, endlessly
You—the militant searcher, Kantian glory against the object—and the vermin opened the door:
What constitutes a name?
You—the militant searcher for the 10th muse, Kantian glory who obliterates the object of Guantanámo poets—and the love, the vermin— at once—opened the door:
What of history, by rights of anyone, constitutes the neglect of a possible ontological name?
You—the militant searcher for a half-beautiful muse travelling beyond a scientific imagination, obscene machine, Kantian glory whose eyes are disciplined to make mad lives, a kind of look that binds the healer and the reprobate, criminal, leper, brown whore, termite-infested trunk of a lime tree—and the love where the vermin of Franz Kafka hides—like the decaying body of Dorian Gray that disappears laggardly following the Japanese season of time—once again wanted to open the door:
What account of history, by rights of men, does disease of the soul constitute personhood, the imagined neglect of god?
You—the militant searcher for a muse in a discriminated imagination, obscene machine of Charles Bukowski, Kantian glory whose eyes are disciplined to make mad lives decorated behind the curtains of a red Chinese theater where Song Liling sings Giacomo Puccini's opera onto which the stage of reality projects the utmost vehement passion of a phallic authority, man of metallic armor, soldier of a communist nation that binds sociality through lies of any form, creator of the modern Frankenstein who had the desire— and the love where the vermin of Franz Kafka hides—similar to placelessness of the unnamed Wildean body decaying slowly under the gelid fabric of a Japanese winter that soon left—desire an opened door:
What tendentious account of history, by rights of hystericmen, does a constellation of myths of the diseased soul constitute a grey galaxy of misfortune where the likes of the prisoners of Guantanámo habituate as the imagined neglect of god, the irony of morality?
You— the militant searcher for a lover flowing in a disarray of masculine melodies, retiring obscene machine of Charles Bukowski, Kantian glory whose eyes are disciplined to make mad lives that, in a mysterious glint, pleaded to an absent friend who was once othered and differentiated from the phallic men of pure science, men of metallic armor, soldiers, the meaning of a communist nation that binds the bridges of reason where only men-the body and substance of religion who confiscate the evils surrounding the bay of Guantanámo, timeless myths of—and the love where the vermin of Franz Kafka hides—the hundred years of disappearance and disinterestedness in the feminine variant of a Chinese man like Jia Baoyu, flamboyant, sordid, deadly, René Gallimard, blind Nietzschean subject, diplomat who loved the theatrical closet, tried, and punished for betraying his nation, interrupted his ritual suicide—stood up ceremoniously, and opened the door of the naturally impermanent Gregor Samsa, a man in the past:
What tendentious denial account of history, by rights of estranged hysteric men, does repetition of myths about the lover, carnal conspirator of the man of patriotism, leader of Japan's Shield Society constitute the creation of, rather than the inevitable continuity of the soul's defeat as the pathological imagined neglect of god, the irony of life and living?
You—the ancient visible searcher of things prey to dementia, plain watcher of fantasy to the obese machine of Bukowski, once among visceral men who dared to love a love in pagan terms, absent friend of Estragon and Vladimir, gallant devotee of the psychic scripts written in holy verses of normality and restless dominion crammed in a glass of blood, retired missionary healer of the putrefied with a desirous flesh and fire when the prisoners of Guantanámo rose from the dead, then, turned into scars of time and the lust of—and the love where the vermin of Franz Kafka hides— all the men of pure science, fatigued soldiers of faith, each hand held different flags of a communist nation, all angrily searching for the bold Nietzchean subject who just fell down after mimicking the fabricated death, art of Yukio Mishima, waiting for reincarnation, while songs of a pretentious Peking Opera cleanses —the discombobulating stage of the bisexual—the human— liaison always opened the door:
What submissive account of history, by rights of ensnared estranged hysteric men, does purity of hatred not a virile bind to hatred of purity, disease and defeat of the soul that dies without a trace, a clue, a sea, a land, a name, constitute to a pathological neglectful god, the irony of a lover and an unknown 'I' like the imaginary Godot who never came?
By B.B.P. HosmilloQLRS Vol. 12 No. 2 Apr 2013