From Sex to Super-consciousness (Musings of an anonymous MAN on sex, spirituality and everything else in between) As I am wasting my monotonous days, reminiscences began creeping in of those sex-full days of wondrous, wanton lust, languidly fueling up my torn-up moods of boredom with something magical. And I allowed these emotions to distressingly float along the milky way of guilt and joy, dreads and dreams, being and becoming, and the suppressions and exuberance of an immaturely coming of age man in the city of never-ending little circles. It combines everything together in a banquet of marvelous delight. I remember my love for that cheeky, whore-like colleague, one with brown black hair, a white-like face, and not-so-soft skin, for the pain of pushing, pulling, falling, digging, eating, and at the end, throwing something from my pocket and something for my horse-like thing—no wonder they call me a real hunter; I was always loaded on with my pestle those days, ready for a fire. Too cool, I thought, or perhaps just a fool. I allowed my life to remain as an itchy despair. I, the Hunter, as my colleagues have marked me, am a lone employee in the financial sector of the economy, working in little boxes in big buildings, counting and recounting huge cash with nothing in the hand, kind of analogy, here, eating and getting nothing wearing a leather cap. This kind of situation is so easy to put me off. I would shake and spring out life every night. For those days, I considered myself a sex seeker; I was a sex guru's imperfect disciple, but out of resentment, the gaze of “the other” fixed me as a hunter or for some a Billy goat. Yes, I was addicted in sex, but what does it mean for a man of twenty-four to have this addiction in comparison to those horribly ugly things that everybody watches without any disgust? No, I never abused, manipulated or harassed any one for my lust, it was all straight or nothing, all my passions were congenial partners or affordable professionals. My habit of chasing fantasies began during my college days. They, with rugged cheeks and a bit of soft, tight tissues, all had to come down to this dull valley to make something out there to survive for their families. For happy buck goats like us, we were a pack of four back then. It was the days of abundance; they were everywhere and we were pushing, pulling, and throwing, and they were grabbing, blowing, dunking, and bucking. It was all white and blue. Anyway, it all started in a small wooden box. She had a soft smile. I put my hand all over her and then sucked from her nipple. It tasted awfully sweet. I was already high. I emptied my pocket and walked home alone. In those days of thoughtless sex, I was there almost all the time, at the intersection of seven distinct turns inside the old house. Sometimes even the prostitutes found it hard to take my push; her juices were not enough. After some time, my lousy friend arrived from Australia—wow, it was already down under—to find a young girl who would sleep with him for his foreign gate pass. The first thing I said to him was, Have you done it yet? He was perplexed. I still remember that docile rat running away from his horny girl when she wanted to kiss her. It's vivid, and I wanted to take him to my place, a new and recent one I have found near the holy place. Shiva X, and what next? They were ripe from the village and falling down in the valley with soft and sharp breasts; it was too good to miss. Again, what next? As the white explosions continued, I told my lucky-less friend to join me in my exuberance, but he was a bit too human, not half a kind of animal. I was sure that he had come back to Kathmandu to sharpen a dull pencil on a virgin cutter. He had a magical card to juice up any girl out there. That magical thing works for every middle-class girl? I can’t understand the black line of separation between middle-class young girls and my better-loved prostitutes; they both easily give up, don’t they? One for the money, two for a show, and three for a pass to fly away. All the same, I am not mistaken between a few thousand and a hard card. My friend said, I am in search of a life partner to work with and sleep down under. I searched with the face of a sober hunter and found a young woman who was bright, glassy-eyed, restless, and tired of her stepmother and a confused father. I asked her, Are you interested in traveling to Australia? I was not surprised when I got her close, and she agreed. After a few cups of coffee, the deal was done; things will never be the same again. However, I the hunter was not called for the marriage; I was not bothered, and can’t you see it? What an embarrassment it would be for them to find the presence of a hunter when both of them were thinking about goating each other. My friend slept with his wife, and that evening, without any disgust, I did the same with a girl in exchange for cash. It was relaxing. After a while, a thought came rushing into my mind of that soft-skinned pale girl my friend was digging in all the while. What made her so lovely was that she was pretty and tall, like a slate pole. I wouldn’t reach for her hole; it seemed too tight and obstructed for me. Every time Prakash did something with her, it felt as if my spirit was being rapped through my asshole. It was too much and too big for that girl, Sony, and my boy, Prakash. They traveled across the long lane to the filthy resorts to do that thing. Am I going to tell you more about Sony? Probably NO. Sony was among the girls I dropped for, but she was hunted down by my friend, and I would only say to myself that her grapes are tasteless and sour. Still, I remember the day of her marriage; it was astrologically supported and arranged, and I even saw tears in her eyes. Her husband was dissimilar as my friend, but he was another kind of hunter; he was rich, round, dull, and bit of hairless in front. As I go through the news these days, I realize that sex has indeed become a bit too complicated and dangerous because people are too either curious or judgmental. It’s a looming disaster when sex ceases to become straight and spontaneous and begins as a point of abuse and bargain. What if you bump into a stranger who can trap you with lust and completely wreck you? You may say I got away because I am not a celebrity; I was young and too fit, fine, smooth, and healthy, but I say to them I was an addict because without sex in that zone of quantity, I wouldn't have survived. I have never undermined a woman; even if I had bumped off a feminist, she would have never complained, because there were no tactics, tricks, abuse, false promises, or power involved; it was my nature; no betrayal. And thanks to my ocean guru I never turned into a suicidal man or a suppressed serial killer. I don't know how I ended up in a marriage—from which side I don't know—but that was the day, around thirty-two, I realized the hunter also got hunted out and the Billy goat in me got castrated. I think to move out of sex addiction is something like moving up in the ladder of seven chakras, channeling that energy some more into the heart and head, and allowing those impulses to find their expressions on something else; there is no need to push or pull so much as these days, I paint, poet, music, focus more on math, and meditate; my guru would say take that leap from sex to super-consciousness. Oh, my master, I have not touched it yet; I am hanging in between. But I have realized that in the cosmic scheme of things, a sage moon as he was, my master Rajneesh spoke that the urge for sex is an unconscious way of searching for your soul. Indeed, it gives a sense of transcendence to be with the mind, not obsessed with sex. (Gaurav Ojha is a writer, researcher, and educator at different educational institutions.)
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Dr. Maheshwar Das
ENDLESS LOVE You are altogether a wonderful damsel Like a shed of flowers over me So much soothing and ecstatic Like a rain of moonshine splendour. So much full of lovely-look like butterflies. Ever charming like the songs of a cuckoo Endless love and timeless beauty have embraced you. Your sweet embrace is life-giving And voice is like a boisterous brook. That flows dancing and jumping on solid rock. Life has become a miraculous beauty for you. Your endless love has surround me from all sides. It has glorified my mind And filled me with unforgettable memories. RESURRECTION The pangs and pain still vibrating the air. The hilltop was tinged and soaked with blood. The sun hid away in shame, not to face, the cruel act. Thus the darkness descends swiftly Although, it was mid-day, in fact The barbarians never left him to nail down In his foot, palm, heart and waste. There was tremendous roaring of the wind The wind could not bear the torturous work. There was a cry all over nature. The butchers finished their works Took away the clothes even, leaving him almost half-naked. Jesus prayed to the Almighty to bless the sinners After hours Jesus again came back with golden colours Blessed the miscreants who were no more. He blessed all, the depressed and deprived souls Nature changed again. There were scents of flowers and greenery all around Nature was filled with fragrances sweet and soft Zephyr began to blow Few of the blessed saints could see the resurrection of Jesus Jesus blessed the whole of mankind. And left for the heavenly abode. SPRING Oh, Spring With an intermittent symphony As the sweet spell of cuckoo comes From the dense trees I remember you. At dawn, when the soft sunshine touches the earth with beauty so bare I remember you. When birds-flock fly in the sky with so much glee Leaving the foot print of their chorus in the wide sky I remember you. Often seeing the bees and butterflies in the lush green bush at my barn, I know, you have arrived with all your splendour and beauty. I remember you. When I see the vernal beauty With so many flower- bunch hanging in the creepers and trees And there is festival of flowers and hues. I remember you My heart thrills with joy in your presence, I remember the Almighty for this beautiful arrangement for his creation. Thy Songs Divine Something thrilled the whole being The sky and earth resonated With the sound of your flute moving from sphere to sphere. Thousand years have passed Yet, the voice of your flute is still creating sensation beyond reason. Enlivening the hearts of zillions, with celestial joy and splendor. Still, your memory is so vibrant everywhere in space Even, the story of your love and the teaching of Gita on the battlefield Propitiates the dry heart like charging again with beauty and ecstasy. In the lane and bylanes of cities and villages The subtle vibration persists in the minds of the people The story of celestial love is alive like a radiant ray. Thy legacy, thy teaching, thy love Is a symbol and shining elixir of life. Thy vibration of the teaching of the Gita is still an aspiring flame in the heart of all the Yogis, seers and seekers The flame of the message of the Gita is the shining sermon of the world. Everywhere thy voice is heard as sweet melody of life, enlivening the whole world. Thy sublime message is the elixir of life zillions in the world In the desolate sands of Yamuna On the wide roads of Mathura And under shady fragrant groves of Brindavan In all the dusts of Gopa Pura Everywhere is heard; thy voice, thy flute. Oh Lord, your flute is the symphony everywhere. As a symbol and sign The whole vast space is filled with verses of your love And your love for the whole creation Thousands of years have passed Yet, zillions are moved by the love and songs of the divine The enchanting chanting of the sermons of human life. Dr. Maheswar Das ------------------------------- He is a bilingual poet, translator, editor, and story writer. He writes in English and in the Odia language. He has been pursuing his creative writing for the last twenty years and has authored more than one thousand English poems. All of his poetical exposition centers around Nature, God, love, and relationships. Some of his poems have been translated into international languages. He has co-authored three English anthologies of poems with his two friends. Besides he is the co-author of more than fifty English anthologies of poems of many literary groups. He holds the degree of M.A. in both Economics and History. He has accomplished a Ph.D. degree in sociology from Utkal University. He also holds a law degree from M.S. Law College, Cuttack. He hails from Mallipur in the district of Cuttack, Odisha, India. His English poems have been published in several national and international journals and Anthologies and have gained worldwide appreciation. He has received so many accolades from various national and international literary groups. He is a recipient of the Gold Medal award from the World Union of Poets, Rome.
Poetry from J.J. Campbell
the little ants marching we are the losers the glue of society the little ants marching for hope even though destiny has other things in mind the lost souls holding on for something that resembles a life we dreamed about as children sometimes the sun doesn't even bother to shine -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- some people are i once thought i was in love with this beautiful older woman right up until she got me fired from my job and it's not that i'm unwilling to accept that some people are just fucking evil i only wonder why the fuck am i the one that has to experience all of them the witches have won again i suppose ------------------------------------------------------- just as damaged all the beautiful faces on those magazines i convince myself they are just as damaged as i am any chance meeting and the life long quest for the right one will be resolved and yes, i'm aware these delusions aren't healthy and are only going to lead to trouble boredom doesn't exactly keep the juices flowing these days ------------------------------------------------------------- does the madness ever end another day spent breathing another day watching this crazy fucking mess just burn do i break out the violin or join a protest and throw a rock does the madness ever end where is the laughter a joyous hug instead, everyone is buried in their phones plotting or masturbating out of hate i tell all the ones i love that i do love them every day i can mostly because it is a very simple act that can bring someone a moment of joy a smile a flutter of emotion something better than all the shit we wade through just to make it to a bed the ground or the concrete of a cell i can't imagine anyone calling this living ----------------------------------------------------------------- an interesting test of pain a ghost from my past has noticed i'm mentioning sex more in the poems any time that ghost wants to take the hint and pounce she is more than welcome lord knows two arthritic wrists make for an interesting test of pain as one is trying to climax before attempting to get some sleep each and every night glutton for punishment as always J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is trapped in suburbia, plotting his escape. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Black Coffee Review and The Asylum Floor. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
Poetry from Alan Catlin
After Reading Charles Burchfield’s Journal #1 Last fading light after sunset at meadows end. Wildflowers lose their color anticipating an encroachment of trees. Nighthawks ravage the venous skin of leaves clustered between the thatched tents of pupae evolving into cabbage moths and insects that might be black like flies. Once roused these predacious swarm becoming an infectious, stinging mass, virulent as diseases spread by poison gas. Walking here we are on the cusp of something new but we don’t know what it is. Nascent moon shadows well-worn path; solitary man walking hears nothing moving. Court Artist Jane Rosenberg’s Portrait of an Ex-President of the United States Asleep in a New York City Courtroom During Jury Selection for His Criminal Trial Slouching in his chair, bracketed by legal counsels, the massive bulk of him in weirdly tailored suit, unnaturally orange tinted make-up creating an unhealthy face, an imitation tan. There his thin, blow dried, artificially blonde hair, teased to cover a large bald spot, a caricature at rest, slack jawed and jowly, swollen pouches of excess fat, frown lined forehead, unruly eyebrows vaguely satanic looking, so much of him, looking aged, beaten, too tired to go on, almost peacefully sleeping. His silence is merciful, a blessing. Sophie Calle’s True Stories: photos and essays One stolen shoe: left-red Nose before plastic surgery: a closeup Self-Portrait as topless striper with blonde wig Portrait: Real life artist model sketch defaced by razor cuts Burned bed in the street from three stories up (hers) Self-portrait with pig’s nose TV Guide page in grandmother’s house after she died Single die in jeweler’s ring case New Year’s Eve resolutions: No lying, no biting-the husband’s Las Vegas Drive Up Marriage hale-Open 24 Hours Fake white wedding marriage gathering with family and friends The breakup: the coffee cup, the breasts (hers) Red Wedding Dream on Roissy airport runway Dumped in August: two bird legs mounted on a stick The View of My Life-cows grazing as seen through a window Dead in a good mood-from her mother’s diary When my mother died, I bought a taxidermist she named Monique (after her mother) Death of the beloved cat: laid out in a coffin with a blanket My Mother, My Cat, My Father (gone) Caution sign: END Time Reordered: From the Table of Contents Of Jackie Craven’s Whish Under anesthesia I remember a moon Dawn dreams a new upending I’m speeding the Quantum Highway My misery sleeps through sunrise 3 A.M hovers on a balcony Half-Past Yesterday sleeps in my bed A clock lives inside my looking glass 2 A.M. blunders into the damp city 8 A.M. broods beneath a gray umbrella Half-past yesterday has abandoned me 3 A.M. hovers on a balcony Clocks can’t be trusted in the electric city 2 A.M. jolts awake in the dining car 63:13 raps at my door 63:13 lodges in my sister’s frontal lobe 5:15 paces hospital corridors Urgent care has no time for us As her steel frame expands, the Human Clock writhers and turns to smile Dawn dreams a new upending Half-Past Tomorrow slumbers in the rear of the freezer burned out by promiscuity: Byron’s life and letters excerpted The first gonorrhea I have not paid for A world of other harlotry The Trinity college (stuffed) bear I have quite given up concubinage A Turkish bath-that marble paradise of sherbert and sodomy I shall confine myself henceforth to the strictest adultery There was never a man who gave up so much to women We have been burning the bodies of Shelley and Williams on the sea-shore Cash is the sinew of war I was a fool to come here (Greece) but being here I mut see what is to be done Back! Out of my sight! Fiends, can I have peace, relief from this hell? Come; you damned set of butchers(his attending doctors); take away as much blood as you will: but have done with it
Artwork from Mark Young
Poetry from Mesfakus Salahin
Permanent Lover Let me walk around you I shall be the sky above your head And give you the shade of love I shall be the ground under your feet And make your way comfortable I shall be the air of dream And give you a dreamland. Let me walk with you And hold your hand I shall be your eternal companion Leading you from hell to heaven We shall fly to our destination together All the butterflies will carry us The flowers will adorn us. Let me walk with your soul And carry it in my heart I shall follow your footprints Remembering the shadow of the spring The fountain will whisper with the sea The hills will guard your memories And the rivers will dance to well come us. Let me walk in your memories Without you I am alone Like an empty vessel of time The moon is like a barren field Where nobody can plough love I hear the sound of dream It seems that you are always in my heart. Let me walk with you And paint the colour of art Life is an endless Gallery Where everything is transitory But nothing is meaningless and lost Give me a soft permission To be a permanent lover.
Poetry from Sandip Saha
Heaven on the earth I remember those golden days thirty minutes past nine evening the sun was still in the west sky yet to touch the horizon our dinner was over it was time to go to bed but my eyes were not blinking lest I miss the beauty of nature I did not sleep much that night at three o’clock early morning the sun already rose illuminated surroundings as well as my mind no traffic at all in the roads below our hotel night survived only for a few hours. Standing on the shore of the Atlantic covered in thick woolen wares as pricking cold piercing to skin we went to see the sunset, in panoramic view of my camera I caught the sun in between cliffs partly submerged in the ocean, its roar appeared to be loud laugh of joy our coach was running in snow fall both sides of the road were flooded not by water but with ice it was dawn, the red sun threw its first ray of light to the peaks of hills white, it was only white everywhere my mind found heaven on the earth. I saw you When I saw you last time you had one squirrel that came running from the bush jumped up on your palm swallowed three almonds ran away back to the jungle your fondness of birds was as profound as ever couple of them were sitting on your head so colorful and lively it was a pleasure to look as I left, you took up a book on your lap sitting on a door step on a trimmed green lawn with a cup of coffee you got lost in it the smiling roses and marigolds were soaked in dew on the lawn the golden sun just reached from the morning horizon making them pleasant bees came on them buzzing the cowboy left home to graze his cattle herd long way to go for meadows over hills calm and quiet he took his lunch box as at dusk only he will return. I want to dissolve my mind Every moment of my life is dying drowning in the ocean of the past the stories that are composed become history forever. My mind and body are floating in the flowing river of time they are destined to die one day or the other. My Self is observing sitting on the bank it will do so till the show is over. Whatever once started is going to finish body will perish mind mourning melancholy. Body suffers sadness till it dies mind carries the grief forward from one body to the other. How to slain the mind is the job in hand let it dissolve in the Self abolishing painful existence. I met God Meeting God is a wonderful experience for which many devotees hanker after considering it the highest goal of life. God has been met by different people in many different means and ways most of them by bhakti yoga. They want to meet It as the beloved the endless ocean of love in which they like to dissolve themselves. Some get It as the divine mother or the father who is the savior Yashoda got It as son and so on. Experiencing the immense power of God is also meeting It, not as the lovable but as the most unconquerable entity. I went against the God vehemently for many unfortunate ills It causes to us abused It left and right spurring venom. I was about to leave for Japan with my wife paid huge amount of money to the tour operator but two days before the journey I got typhoid. It attacked me with Its deadly weapons typhoid was accompanied by asthma cough, severe dysentery, arthritis. Over and above that my brain was invades by gas I could not lift my head lost control on myself soiled my bed passing stool and vomiting. It was so severe that I felt I may die it was deep at night, my wife was also helpless that day I bowed to It seeing Its supreme power. Preposterous politics Now a days there are rushes among politicians to fall at the feet of poor people of lower cast. Some greats men described this as worship it seems, according to them, presence of God is more in poor unprivileged public than riches. Ha, ha, ha, these pretentious politically motivated unscrupulous actions are nothing to do with love. One elderly woman made a lavatory in her house for that the prime minister of a country bows down touches her feet. What a ridiculous action to appease! Another chief minister of a state appeases a poor man on whom one upper cast rowdy guy peed in public by brings him to felicitate with garland, washes his feet, puts the washed water on own’s forehead as though the man who hardly can meet his both ends will be benefited. Democracy has developed devotion to downtrodden, do you know why? Because of vote bank politics. Politicians can spit and lick the same for votes TV channels have become a dumping ground of debris of societal actions to irritate the senses of viewers. Sandip Saha (India) won two awards from India and one from USA, published six poetry collections. He also published 152 poems in 47 journals including The Gateway Review, 300 Days of Sun, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Brushfire Literature & Arts, Sheepshead Review, In Parentheses in six countries- India, USA, UK, Australia, Romania and Mauritius.