Tomic Riter

Tag: absurd

  • Miller night

    Late last night, I had this sudden urge to read Henry Miller. His book Tropic Of Capricorn had, once, grabbed me by the neck and lifted me up way above the ionosphere. I couldn’t escape earth. My ass is no rocket. It is a poor ass at best. Last night, I started reading his journals on writing. I read a few paragraphs and they were something. Miller was one of the wise ones. He talked about spirituality in a way that is digestible. He was somewhere between a saint and a cruel pimp. He was more of a pimp. Usually, people who talk about spirituality make it a God-subject. That is nonsense. Utter nonsense. One can be religious and not be spiritual. I have found that men who are actually spiritual are rarely religious. At least they aren’t religious in the manner of bowing before some high-end God out of fear or incompetence or plain suffering. They rarely believe in a higher entity, a universal supervisor, a force that is above humans and that cannot be harnessed by humans. The case is different with the religious ones. For them, they are here and their God is up there. They believe in that light years long distance between here and there, between them and their God. If you walk to them and try telling them otherwise, they might abuse you or even get you killed. It has happened throughout the human history. No doubt in that.

    I will quote some lines here. But wait wait wait. Why should I? To hell with those lines. Who am I to quote anybody? But those were good lines. Really good lines. You would have loved them. Really? Would you have loved them? I doubt it. I seriously doubt it. Miller was good but I doubt anyways. Playing with a kitten might be equally good. No doubt in that. No doubt. Rarely, something good is read, and it’s all old, very old. New art, new writing, new music – all seems dead and fake to me. That is not to say that all that is really dead and fake. It’s just that I feel that way. I am talking horseshit, I know.

    Saw three intellectuals talking to each other while I was taking a walk this evening. I blew my nose and walked on. I find intellectuals repulsive. Yuck! I better finish my coffee and go back to staring at the wall. Outside, crickets are chirping but all they want to do is fuck all night and die of exhaustion. I am not much different. I am going. Watch me go.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Jazz and other things.

    I just feel so lazy, so out of blood. Listening to some late night jazz. I want your arms and legs around me. I want you so close. Only that can keep me warm and alive. Only that. Jazz is just a distraction. It cannot fill your absence. When it rains there, I want it rains here as well. I would smell and and I would smell the rain and I would poison myself. I fold my hands, stare at the bedsheet. It is never tidy. It is like me. I roll on it all day and it hasn’t complained.

    This is just another movie where man’s machines go hostile. RUN RUN RUN they scream as the space around them explodes. Boring science-fiction bullshit. They make it worse by adding century old bad jokes. I mute the television. Now the movie make some sense. HA HA HA HA HA. I turn off the television. Now the movie makes complete sense. HA HA HA HA HA. I put on my earphones, play some more jazz.The Astounding Eyes of Rita. I am the last man on earth listening to jazz. Jazz is dead, its listeners asleep in their graves. It’s not my intention to keep jazz alive by listening to it. I love listening to it sometimes.

    People shit on you for no reason. This isn’t a game of hearts. This is just about wiping each other’s ass, keeping each other stupid. It’s no use showing a heart. Keep it hidden. Stab it and throw away and walk quietly to your dinner table and have a warm dinner alone. Life is about that and nothing more. My blood hasn’t returned yet to my blood. I spilled it somewhere early in the morning – where, I do not remember. My bad days are coming. But soon, maybe in ten days, it will feel alright, like things were bad all along.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • It started with something else.

    I really haven’t given much thought to my vision. I feel drained, as if all the water in me has vaporized. It hurts to even piss. But I am still alive. It’s a little hazy before my eyes but I can still figure out the outlines of things and people. As time passes, a mouse grows into a dinosaur, a mountain crumbles to mud, a peacock eats a car, a bus chases a fly, you breathe in my neck, I open your legs and feel you with my fingers and we are in heaven again and all that unwanted hell falls behind. I smell my own skin, imagining your mouth, your hands, your whole body. My throat is dry again. My legs are lifeless. Now is the time. And now it’s too late. Too late. I turn my head towards a dull pale sunset. Somewhere not far away, they keep drilling holes into the wall for nothing. It’s all too loud. I think about walking out of here. I walk out.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All right reserved.

  • I am talking.

    Why is my tongue flapping in want of you. The clouds have gathered after a long time. It will rain. Oh look at the roads. They are already wet. It has already rained. We could have fucked all morning before you went to work and I went back to hell. But you aren’t here and neither am I. I am talking to the stained walls, to the damaged television. I am talking to my bottle of hot water, to the night lamps that never burn. I am talking to the clouds because all the rainwater has dried in their fat grey bellies. I am talking to the fuming exhaust of these loaded trucks – enter my lungs and make me faint. I am talking and talking and doing nothing much. I am doing all this when I could have drank your cum and begun my day.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • All with one sour eye.

    Woke up again with a goddamn headache. My left eye is still sour and watering through the noon. Is this another infection? Am I going blind? What if I go blind? What is left to see, after all? I tile my head to right and think. I close my eyes and squeeze them under the lids. Let them run dry. Let them turn to stone. You are asleep or you are dying on your table or you are touching yourself and thinking about me or you are working and thinking about me or you are just thinking about me. I pull my hairs as I think. I squeeze my balls as I think. I think as I slowly go blind in one eye.

    Woke up again. Thought about you. Thought about my cock between your legs, about your nipple in my mouth, about your clitoris rubbing my thighs. My left eye is vomiting again. I wash it with acid water. I wash it thrice but nothing. I walk back to my chair, pop a vitamin pill. I thank god because Mother’s Day is over. Another stupid day if you ask me. Why is everybody so insane and so fake all the time every year. Ironically, they are the same people who talk about liberty and equality and all that stupid shit. We all deserve a decent death, and until that comes, a fine living. But those fuckers will ruin it for every single one of us. I close my left eyes and squeeze it under the lid. It’s a joyful irritation. Yes, I am mad but there’s no other way. Yes, I am mad and my tongue is licking you everywhere. Yes, I am mad and there’s nothing an electric shock can do to me. Yes, I am mad and I am filling you with my cum for the rest of your life and my life. Yes, I am mad and I am mad and you are going away again. I lock away my eye in a drawer and walk to the toilet.

    Evening birds are dying in the white careless air. They are quiet now. Everything is quiet now, everything except this head of mine. Everything is quiet except this stomach that wants some more. I take a walk, sit down on the grass. I do that and nothing else and my arms wait for your arms and my lips wait for your lips and my cock is asleep for some time now. The pleasant winds appear magically and enter my shorts and they crawl up my sweaty chest and jump out of my neck. How long before I get up and walk again. What am I waiting here? It’s nothing. I wonder if you are drunk. You are never drunk and I haven’t drank in a long time, except from your lips and your breasts. You are never drunk and I wait for you to open that bottle. You are never drunk and you will drink and you stomach will scream all night like mine.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Ramblings on my vision Part one.

    I might share a little more tonight, or I might not. Who really gives a damn? It’s time I start working towards my vision. My vision. What is it? I have never written it down. I only have a vague idea. It’s there in my mind since long, suspended like a thick haze, dead but there like a virus, standing tall like a wall. I could never break through that wall, otherwise I would have seen the other side and I would have accomplished writing down something about what hung there. It’s time I break that wall and look beyond. I think it’s time. It’s time I concentrate on that wall until it melts down. It’s time I blow that wall with dynamite. It’s time I take a step forward. I have a vision and it’s mine and it’s not going to die. I will not let it die. But why am I writing all this? Maybe I want someone to read all this one day and feel a connection to my idea. But really, what is that idea? Maybe I will arrive at its more concrete form soon. I think I will, and when I do, I will write it in bold golden letters and I will read it out loud every day and I will make it come alive. I will make it come alive. And then one day, I will die.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • Sometimes, I get this feeling.

    Sometimes, I really get this feeling that I can pull it off, that I can make it after all. Sometimes everything is going just fine. The music sounds melodious. Any music. The trees are swaying just right. The winds ain’t too harsh. The dogs are barking in love. The birds are smiling as they fly back to their cozy nests. The rivers, wherever they are flowing, are flowing below the danger level. No flooding. Nothing. The mountains are standing tall and straight and complete and no son of a bitch is razing them down. Everybody’s head around me is working just fine. Every tongue has flowers growing on it. Every curse is divine. Every God is just. Sometimes I get this kind of feeling and I wonder where it’s coming from and why it doesn’t come all the time. I am staring at the cupboard and thinking about what else to say. I am touching my beard. It has grown quite a lot in three months. No cure to that. Human hair keeps growing even after he is dead. Or maybe I am wrong. Who cares really.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • A little something this evening.

    The sandstorm is back after a week. I started writing this at around 5:40 in the evening. It was a lovely day outside, so I spent the whole day roaming everywhere inside my home. I am happy with the sales I have made so far in the ongoing Free Promotion deal of my book Red Room Bar. I am glad people are reading it. I am glad that people are even considering to read it. I am a nobody. Because of this deal, I got to interact with so many people on Instagram. Some told me that they love my work, that they love to read what I write. I am glad to see that my words and sentences are reaching out there through my books. Nothing can bring me greater joy. I was close to crying yesterday. I feel like, for the first time in my life, I am actually doing something that I love. I am filled with a new energy.

    I think I will doing more of these book deals from now on. And I will definitely be writing more than ever. I am still working on the Paperback version of my second poetry book. It should be available for purchase in two weeks.

    The sandstorm has gathered pace now. Beyond a few hundred metres, I see nothing. There’s dust in my hair and on my forehead. It’s 7:30 in the evening now. No one is here. They all have run away or they are running away. Soon I will need a cup of coffee. Soon I will be making a warm cup of coffee for myself, and with it, I will be eating little something. This evening will be gone just like that.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

    CLICK HERE TO BUY MY FREE POETRY E-BOOK RED ROOM BAR.

    **OFFER VALID TILL 8TH MAY**

  • Are you not a writer forever?

    What is really a writer’s problem? Which amounts to the same as asking, what is really your problem? Are you not the writer of your own life? Are you not? In this sense, are you not a writer forever? Can you ever stop that? Even after your death, your something remains here in some form. You might become thinner and thinner with time, so thin you would, one day, stop being visible to our beaten naked eyes. You might become like that and God knows you will become like that, but you never fully disappear. Somebody keeps writing you. Somebody keeps you alive in whatever way that somebody can. Somebody keeps pulling your goddamn hands out of your grassy grave and makes you write some shit. Is that not scary in itself? Living forever? I am talking like I chewed rotten snakes in dinner. This world seems hard to live in for no reason. That’s the paradox. We are here and not here. We are naked and dressed at the same time. We want ice-cream but there’s no ice-cream. It’s the end of this fucking world and also the beginning. My back has begun aching. I have been sitting for far too long. I have been fucking up for far too long. I will get up now. Slowly.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

    CLICK HERE TO BUY MY FREE POETRY E-BOOK RED ROOM BAR.

    **OFFER VALID TILL 8TH MAY**

  • Inner conversations.

    A call from my boss.

    ‘When are you coming back? You were supposed to come back today…’ he said as soon as I picked up his call.

    ‘I am never coming back motherfucker. Go to hell’ I thought and then I said, ‘Not this week. Next week maybe…’

    For the rest of the day, hideous thoughts kept filling my brain. How to quit my job. How to punch everybody in the face. How to forget that phone call. How to make it out of here alive. How to quit my job and become a full time writer. I even did a google search on that. Imagine the hell I must have been going through. I read an article by some writer on some website. She wrote that it was hard, everything was hard. It was hard for her to quit her day job. I thought about that. Yeah, it could be really hard. She said that in the time that she put in doing her own writing work, she could make enough to earn a decent living. She said that she was earning much more than what she was earning in her shit, demeaning job. She said that she was finally earning what she deserved. Well, that was something worth reading, even if all that was a lie.

    Going back to that job, to that desk, to that same old grinding, I knew all that shit was coming back to me one day. I thought I still had time. But that’s the thing about time – you cannot have enough of it. You only have so much. The whole day was spent in quiet, slow suffering. Will I ever be able to make it? Do I still have the choice of saving myself? Is it really that bad or is it bad only inside my head? What am I trying to do here? I am trying to pull myself up. I am neck deep in this goddamn mire and I am trying to dig myself out. At the same time, I am cheating myself. You know why? Because I am really not digging. I am just slipping down every moment. I am just another genius turned scumbag going down.

    I need to become a beggar. I have thought about it several times in the past decade. I need to be thrown on the streets. I want none of this money and this job. It’s all horseshit. It’s a distraction. Took a walk in the evening. Forgot to pop in vitamin tablets today. We are all dying, only some more than others. Today, I feel as if I am dying more than anyone else. Unsettling thoughts kept whizzing in my brain during my little walk. What am I walking for? Should I make a plan to write everyday? Oh I need more disciple in writing. I need to be beaten on my fingers. Without that, I am certainly not going to make it. My reckless, lethargic nature will make sure I do not make it. Everything tastes bitter again. Everything. Or maybe it’s just my coffee. Or maybe it’s just my fucking head. Or maybe I am just hungry and waiting for something good to happen.

    Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.