Sunday, May 24, 2009


ഇനിയൊരു മഴ
ഇതു ചുവന്നിരിക്കുന്നു!
ആരുടെ കണ്ണില്‍നിന്നൊഴുകിയ


Image of Nonthought said...

This poem, if we still maintain the long-abandoned monstrosity of calling virtual diarrhea as poem, while evoking a tired gesture of a flight into the uncanny realm of a totally deterritoralized ontological horizon through both axes of the vertical and horizontal—that is, to the limits of both sky and the sea (what else is raindrop!)— in the very same gesture gets trapped in the old humanistic discursive modality as the desiring machine constituted in and out of the poem is a Christological derivative of the ‘guilt’, with the guilt (and that is its post-Christological vision) is equally distributed in the locus of both the subject and object, which is nothing but a post-industrial blend of the political strategies of both Herr Fuhrer and Hayek, to which, being a Lacanian well-trained in the pre-Stalinist laboratory of Leninist internationalism, non-thought must answer in this simplistic fashion:

Just fuck off. Or as one menstrual cunt said to the other: “Well, it is in the rags.”

നജീബ് said...

The Cartesian post-modernist wont get much dividends from the sinking entrepreneur who is scrubbing the residues of his intellect to feed the ailing soul.The authorial self doesn't seem to be dis/content with the ontological interrogations that a contrapuntal deciphering of the images and structures of human existence warrants.By and large, your reading of the poem reminds me a pre-industrial Romantic :

"My own voice cheered me, and-far more- the mind's
internal echo of the imperfect sound.
To both i listened, drawing from them both
a cheerful confidence in things to come."

അമ്മാവന് അടുപ്പിലും തൂറാം said...
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അമ്മാവന് അടുപ്പിലും തൂറാം said...

in our country, mans are shitting thru the anal hole. but in your country these gentle menons are shitting through blog.

Image of Nonthought said...

Your point is truism insofar as we permit ourselves the joke of aligning ourselves with the nodal points of the time-space interval of the empty homogenous time of bourgeoisie modernity, which Wlater Benjamin, through an unfathomable subtle plunge into the ur-history of phenomenon, questions with a fluidity of time-space by giving the latter a name with both Kabalistic and Marxist overtones, that of messianic time, and, it is evident from such an operation that the elegiac frame of the elegant song of an eternal loss in the nostalgia mode is neither the absolute showing its dog-teeth through a whimpering smile before chimneys sent out the vital smoke of industrial combustion nor the later-day tectonic shifts or landslide of the bio inaugurated by a massive information overload forced upon on the DNA and genes.

Naji, either you are pregnant or you are not. YOU CAN NEVER BE SLIGHTLY PREGNANT.