Biography of a photon


There’s nothing but walls,
old grey walls,
cracked walls,
a wall of walls;

several layers of cloistered space
with damp smell of rain,
curving inwards with a hunger
of flat piano dust,
and a single photon that burgles in
like the monsoon cat,
drenched and fading.

The wall grows faces in the wind,
face of the lunatic,
face of God.

The face starves in the neon lamp
and un-winds into dreams;
the light builds up more walls,
walls of translucent mist
through which the streetcar runs.

Through the tube-stations of the city
rushing in a purple haze of headlights;

scream and rain,
and melt.

The light is a strange demon
that spreads like diluted wings across the sky
when the priest pisses at the setting sun
or the headlights merge into the tunnel,
the shimmer of dust atoms
in the ecstasy of the single fled proton,
like a ghost pecking at a slice of infinity.

There’s nothing but walls,
walls and walls;
to exist and un-exist
at the same time,
at the same place,
is insane and impossible.

We can un-exist
in the same time and same place;
exist in the same place
at different times
or at different places
at the same time.

but never, never at the same time
and same place.

Real and un-real,
yet possible,
to move is to falsify,
to stretch and steal time
and make every latent second
and the ghost moments
a martyr to the movement.

The photon in my cell
that spins in the dampness
is a process of unseen force
in this movement;
(the mad dance of beauty)
the history of every photon
that remembers life as objects
of shape, sound and colour.

This eternal principle of birth of light,
nothing but a change,
like the photon dust in my cell
born of an object decayed,
but can now escape as the orange dust
of sunset, the green dust of walls,
the blue dust of the neon,
or the dust of my breathe
that will escape as a part of me.

A part of me turning
into the lemon dust of the city
that explores the deserted streets,
the hallucinating train stations
and lovers clutching the night air
like the last stream of faith.

Clutch, un-clutch.

The dust spreads like a voyeur in the skies
to build this stream of movement,
stream of ghosts,
stream of naked consciousness;
unfelt like the alpha gaze,
unheard like the ultra-silence
of deafening screams
of the lunatic.

exhale, explode, annihilate.

We’re living in this illusory light
between humans,
that is streamless like an infra-smell
which takes time to travel;
the impulse is forever belated,
keeping us in a fallen belief
of life, love and faith.

The impulse is forever belated,
a recoil, an un-existence
in the belief of the past;
(Time has her own revenge
for the funeral of those lost, latent moments)
my own debated existence now
perhaps as a freed photon,
living in the illusion of these blue walls.

The subconscious[5] stream
now a dream of images,
images of faceless walls
and wall-less faces,
faces on walls,
walled faces,
faces in places,
places with faces,
and places without walls;
faces, places and walls merge
into a trickle,
a walled place with a face
on the wall.

It’s a war with walls,
the war of light with walls;
the single photon suspended in rain
as it copulates, splitting into colours;

light in the eye of the lunatic,
light in the principle of truth.

the streetcar is a translucent halo
in the face of God,
the walls diffracting existence
and false time,
while the purple haze of the ultra-silence
hangs like a dust camera
in the unconscious.

Last lover of light,
the Oedipal Ghost,
optical assassins of violet light,
the monsoon cat on the piano dust,
first beam of the sun
though Krisnachura flowers.

God-mother of the mirror,
the walls are turning into faces
and faces turning into walls.

Light on the holocaust faces
vibrate with faith,
in a latent stream of thought.

The photon in the piano dust,
in the monsoon cat,
and on the face of the lunatic in the wall
now laughs at my freedom.

(Influenced by Albert Camus’ The Outsider and the high walls of Alipore Jail.)

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