Parable of the Sperm

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

This a fiction, an epiphany of ideas.

Parable of the Sperm

I watch the pink walls diluted by the age of time. Pink, I love to dream of women—their music, their orifices becomes a haunting psychedelic witch. Color of her panties –yes I have sniffed with relish, savored the tasty fragrance.


I see a yellow banana; yes it’s my fruit when it is passioned in loves to be licked.

God—I want to write and write. Writing is an orgy defying death. Climax and orgasm are sweet. Death is bitter.  She needs many orgasms to go to sleep. Adultery has been a luscious poetry for me.

Grace, I am in your theology, so that I won’t be excluded.

The novel of writing is an art; tropes sculpt an aesthetic of existence. 

The memory of her haunts me. I need to be inserted between her legs and flower her to an ecstasy of being.

Time—a halo for being; in the world of time—an orifice for suckling.

Nirvana the state of exalted consciousness, sex is the only enlightenment.

The sky is clear like sarcasm of shit. Sad to say I have met many women who will offer their bodies for money.

I am in poverty; can I be optimistic about riches? Poverty, you cannot breed my thought into the insanity that’s not an art.

Love birds are caged, they speak for their freedom—their Palestine as their homeland.

Innocence, I was born with it, now I am mature in adultery.

Poetry, you can flower the meaning of bliss in sex.

Cannabis I have smoked you with love and sexual longing.

I saw a pink pen stroke with a P in the sky—it lit my heart with psychedelic mesmerism and quivered my soul in the poetries of epiphanic delight.

Waking up to a dream is pleasant as an erection.

Narratology in the voice of writing—I look at myself wrapped up in the ineffable apophatic voice of God, a voice that God shared with Moses in the burning bush. I have a pen that drips, penetrating the lava pussy of paper as an oasis of succulence. I try to write time in the memory of Borges, and I become like Minotaur confined in the labyrinth. My experience lies like mystical beads that chant extrasensorially into the haze of time that lived, into the mercurial present and to being of futuristic optimism. Death is a haunting surprise that I cannot anticipate.

Realism of the novel, I have poured your book in temporal life, your meanderings into costumes of cultures; I excavate the sculpture of your textual narration; you are bourgeoisie rendering of habituation; you create signs that lull the historicity of meaning, a similitude of existence. You go to great extent of narco-opiating the psychologism of character sketches. In neo-realism –characters have lost their voice; they are a legion of an unstable author. There are Epics of realism—grand narratives of war—carrying a moral lesson. War is the phenomenologization of aggression. How can war become moral lessons? Peace is a lesbian—her voice in the sublimation of the art of writing. War of mythologies is privileging the Gods to be treacherous and bestial and inhumane.  Krishna is an example. War crimes are not only textual relics but they are also suffocating realities for the marginalized people like the Palestinians. Gujarat is a classic example of communal wars. The load of the Hindus torched out alive the Muslims. Religion drives the human to be a maniac. Art perverts him or her to be a good existential being.

Just when I wanted to go out, God pissed from the sky. Scattered yellow petals lay like a trail of urine on the ground.



Submitted: October 11, 2021

© Copyright 2021 anand bose. All rights reserved.

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