Buzzing in my head are metaphors,
Polite and impolite delineations,
Chaos of authentic writing.
In an age of lit-crits and
Opposing theorists….
I am looking for Iser.
Searching for Wordsworth’s bridges
I am torn between Plath and Barthes,
Identity and location.
Between my surreal self and my ghost-writer.
Who am I?
Caught in the myth of the postmodern climax of hyphenated passports.
Throwing up in the face of Tibetan struggle for regaining its negritude….
Where are we heading?
With half the capitalist third world struggling to posses its roots?
And the rest to erase their colonised past….
Moving into the synthesis of things
Into the un-mowed pastures of split-ideas and schizophrenic beliefs…
We are moving into yoga.
Into Vippaassana
Into soundless energy.
In the dangerous mint of self-help books.
Are we welcoming the synthesis of hyphens?
Unlike Rushdie I refuse my lost identity …
I shun hybridity,
I live on polished rice, sulphured sugar and veggies grown by the gutter.
To be honest, girl, this blown up shit about post modern assimilations
Is sheer nonsense.
They build up vitriolic thesis based on id.(ie) insecurities.
Ignore the fuckers’ girl,
They haven’t a real life like you and me.
We have gone beyond the modernist depression and its post joy.
We live in the world as gaste-arbeiter.
Don’t fool yourself and call it your own: instead
Embrace the world of technocratic revolution.
The world of resurrected fantasy...
Potter and the plotter are our crisis.
Identification is not…saving its remains is! ]
Today’s delight is not free sex but nuke bias.
Let your foundations sink in.
Don’t read into things much…
Remember the only worse thing to misinterpretation is
Over interpretation and
They don’t teach you that in lit class.
Just clear your fucked head,
Read how your predecessors died,
Know that you don’t want to shove your head into a microwave.
Don’t push yourself….
It’s not worth a bullet in your brain.
