A Night After the Neurosis : a Song For the Mozaic Society

It is a quite Sunday morning It was a weird outing in the evening We saw fuming ashes We saw failed elephants We heard the tales of fallen petals We saw drifting continents of love and lust It was a quite Sunday morning after a tepid Saturday night I saw many men sulking under the weight of their own dreams I heard many women lustfully languishing their tongue twisters They were all eloquent They were all spellbound They were castrated A Carnival in the oddest of the hours A Caricature of my self and many other selves Our pulses were travelling to Venus, Mars and Pluto We were simmering in the heat of the market mongers We were boiler plates to the typecasted experiments in human nature Have you heard about Pavlov Who embarked on an experiment to create machines in human mindset Have you learned about Vygotsky Who smiled at the smiling babies and loved their zones of evolution Have you wept when Maykovsky shot dead himself His poetry must have been boiling faster than his heart impulses When I end up embracing the dichotomies of Mikhail Bakhtin I know I have become a scoundrel, polyglot, a hedonist, pagan beast When this hetroglossia unfolds and scarlet fevers engulf the nations Fear of languages, life and all sort of glass house effects will prevail Do you know the fissures in your palace Do you know if it is made of marble, mosaic, or even a piece of pitch blend? Now I know only about primordial stones and shadows Who build pyramids and prisons in the middle of stone hinged and laggard society Who are in multitudes, nameless, nation-less, necro-manic living echoes I live their turquoise blue rings, silver palms, their mythical fear of tortoises I dig a grave to heal their zest for anarchy, and to unwound their zeitgeist