Friday, November 02, 2007

100 more


Back again, the cave, blowing the pre-buddha minds of the un-initial. Who is not? We all initial in the same ways as the morning's sounds: it’s a visceral grind, a seeking for truth in the gutters of nonsense, the gutters of Annapurna, the gutters of Bombay. My father’s feet in the streets of Lahore, the whores of Lahore fading in memory, but not the body’s vault of uninterrupted play. I could fade, he could fade, but not the beauty of red desire as she flies the morning streets, hers the prayer of the sensate, the nerve endings of sacred flight.

Labels: , ,


Blogger San said...

Murat, you truly have a knack for letting 'er rip. I tried 100 words, letting them flow quickly, and what I got was not nearly so cool. I wound up with a bunch of puns, very little imagery, very little feeling. It was fun anyway and did give me an idea for something I might develop into something bigger--105 words?

8:08 AM  
Blogger murat11 said...

I don't know about that knack, San. As you know, I make no effort whatsoever to make sense, and I am reliably self-referential, with no expectation of being understood. Plus, I have about, what, 15 years or so of Aunt Julie Cameron running in my veins. 100 words is morning pages-lite. Plus, you'll notice I don't put ALL my 100 word-ers up.

All that being said, I do indeed dig the 105 words idea.

"Word" to the wise, if you ever run across something called 43 Things, run, do not walk, away ASAP. If you have the least bit of extra time on your hands, it can be highly addictive, if not also fairly inane.


6:21 PM  

Post a Comment

<< Home