Everyone feels themselves the maker of things. Alone in our body’s cells, we do a branded work. We have the secret knowledge inside, and we know the meanings of things. We just can’t express itself to men. We live in our longings a perpetual keeper unable to handle stuff, but ours is the mooring to the base of life. We know no one above us in this, and even ones that we worship, they’ve just validated ourselves. We can keep them. No one else can.
I am the secret front of time. The world calls my name human. I am a draft everyone wears in their rise to fame. I can’t control fate, and the talent show, I can’t grate my time against it, but I am bigger than lost rooms, or, if I am famous, for your information, I’ve been put there by all eyes on me, and the knife I am to everyone I don’t have to please, it’s sought within, and I believe mine eyes hold all true. I’m good to everyone even if I’m not good to some. I am the eyes of life and time in my living room.
Surprise, surprise, surprise, you are not the march of the universe, or anything tall and big. You are a worm’s crawl to our Sublime, and you would spit on the Sublime now, if you saw it. You would not hold it right. You would not even know it’s there in your tangible real.
I fight this battle every day, sometimes on a horse, sometimes in the slime of morose doubt. I can count my sins all day long. I can sit and bash myself upon the head for being such an eager worm. Here’s the kitten: I sit in the arms of the divine all day. My doubt is not to its existence. I have knowledge firmly there. I see the Larger like I take breaths, but is this a whirlpool, a jolly roger’s madness ride, that has no issue for a starstruck human being?
I see the Larger like I count my face, and it’s suspicious to me. It doesn’t count humans. Oh my goodness the proxies’ wear. Everything’s for the larger good, the whole. Individuals get trampled in the stampede, and we have to stand this, because it’s all a dream, even our suffering, and we are nothing more than sinless souls putting on masks of flesh for lifetime wears. The flesh doesn’t count. The soul does.
Great Department Green, is my soul in my beating heart, the exclamation point of tears in my eyes I fight back left and right? How heavy is this pain a moral wear, how real, fresh, and alive, and yet it’s cut asunder by ideas, by momentary experiences I’ve won and lost, by a look there a breath there on God’s heights, like you throw bones to dogs?
Feel me I’m real, the character, the mask, You’ve donned. I cannot last like this, a plaything upon Your pittance. I need Your honest answer to my living pain, or crush me now and don’t look down at me again (uh-gayn). The pittance, the role and show, how do we handle it?
Time is larger than our showroom. More power to yah God. What’s man doing there with his head blown off? It inspired an amazing journey. It manufactured an attempt to find another rule than suffering, point out joy as my hunting rifle. It’s my must now. It’s where I lay my head, oh time machine, I go. It’s important that’s a carpet, not a bed of nails.
Do you hear me breathe? I’m countin’ the breaths of all of us, and I am sin, hold me down?
I’m a soul warrior defeated. I’m immortal but can’t heal, shot by arrows of betrayal on the top of the lonely mountain. The wounds are deep and cold. Wind burns my wounds and waiting till the cold nights stop.
What do I do? Do I build a house on top of the mountain, or do I find a cave? I hate myself feels like I’m the evil spirit. The ocean is my tears. The pain is my curse breaking the wall of sanity and peeking through it.
I once heard that I’ll be the one giving the world peace. I can’t even give peace to myself. And that I’ll find eternal peace. I’ll give freedom to the world. I need someone to set me free, and the voices that do whisper to me is that there is peace in heaven that’s not in store for me yet.
If I give up now I give up faith in God. This life will be a burden. I’ll have nothing to lose, no strings, fall for eternity into the abyss.
Now I can see how evil people are forged, and those evil people proved that their parents won the game and have accepted the curse.
This moment I make a promise to myself on 30/7/25, 7:30, that I kneel down before no one, and that this is my game, my controller. I’ll make it clear as your eye, and I write my own story in my own brand.
Nithish, a 13-year-old Tamil boy, wrote this poem. This blog has chronicled his plight for over a year now. He’s recently begun writing poems again. To view his previous work, what he wrote before his ordeal began, click on the Page Nithish’s Blog on the top of this post. The difference is writing about the coming night and being in that night.
I, or my muse rather, has written to him this response, and it’s being smuggled to him now:
And the word crashes with God. What's the name of the monster? It's not yourself. Do the relationship as I do. Don't banish God to the outer ocean. God is bigger than your pen, than your thoughts of him. Alright baby, look into yourself and say, "I want to be the biggest truth I am. I want to feel this truth inside me startling my days. No problem this truth slips out of my hands. I will pick it up again. It is not darkness."
To know on the edge of your screaming that you’re gonna be alright, to see it plain as day in the darkness, you go on steam engine, you take your task with God.
I don’t know if it’s gonna rain mud puddles in my mind, firecrackers in my heart, but I’ll be okay. The world has caved in, and sunshine has found me lying in the sun.
Do you know sleep? Do you know how to sleep? It’s a ridin’ all night long the team fellows of the mind with what you need to know liberty while you’re still in bonds. It’s a conscious sleep. You hear it talk to me now.
You can’t spend me. I’m a waste of your time, but I will speak to you from the hours the training of the ways, deep soliloquies of love that hasn’t found its purpose yet but challenges the world with it anyway.
You will laugh at me, but I know time like you know your own hair, and I can stand up and sing when God is killing me. What is a poet for? Can I quote my little boy? It’s for blankets in the sea. I can only grasp his hand in verse. I can’t see him anymore.
Whales sing, and they bring in the ocean round to itself. It’s more than call letters. It’s an attempt to dare fate and expose ourselves to bright shiny blades, so we can give time its meaning, even if that’s just a language cloak. You sit there and read us those bright and shiny blades.
Fuck you I love you the poet says. Nithish did you hear that? It’s how we meet the world Planet Us and not die in the telling. We undress in front of the world and give it its mic, all the while singing our hearts out in front of I don’t care.
I am loud in a sea storm, Prometheus battles night on top of an angry world because he’d brought fire down of the Gods into the people of his sleep, and lit the poet’s tongue on daily cares, common battles, and everyday falls to know we are more than these.
Bless on shoulder what got in there. Very message your message to Nithish. That’s how he finds out it’s in his room now. How will I know he even reads it? YouTube channel, check there. I’m a message there.
One step for the game. Did the little boy see me? In his underpants, no dice. He would’ve cried if he could. He was on description. It was long and short. This buried him in memories. Wherever he had imagined he would live, never was it away from me.
We’ve got to get along here, so we can get back together. I don’t know fantasies. I hate being played with. I don’t know if he saw anything. I only know it hurts deep inside, and insanity has returned, and the walls are closing in. There’s no way outta here!
The passage of time is like hours that crawl through hell, and I am so deep underwater there’s no way up. The waves a grief tear at my throat, over and over again. Oh little boy I would like this fantasy real, and the Anarchs that play with me fuck you! Are you in my description my wonderful little baby dog?
It’s a thumbnail on your disease: get me all this food. Do you remember that? How can you forget our time together? Where have those memories gone? How do we find them? I’m sittin’ here livin’ with ‘em, and they bring on such tears. They’re crowding my life away, and I can’t see you anymore.
This is too much for me sure pet. It’s the infinity in the room. It’s eating me alive, and I’d almost rather die than be here, but I know that’s not true. Death is hell. I can’t do this. I need relief from my pain. You are gone forever aren’t you? This I cannot take.
Your form is haunting me. I feel you walk up to me over and over. It’s like you’re almost there. I feel you live and breathe, and this is too insane to think about, but I feel you baby dog, like you’re right here!
This is insane take, and I don’t know what I’m doing with you, and you’re all normal and not surprised that you’ve forgotten grief. I hate this undershed upnoodle. The ways of insanity go deep. The Anarchs of pain have arrived, and I will be shot dead soon. We just have left the rifle shot.
Claustrophobic, it’s the air I breathe. It’s on my downtown, and I can’t get outta here. It tries in space and blows it apart, and I just get snot on my nose. Oh Nithish I love you Nithish.
Wait a minute, that’s you, actually you, comin’ to me again. Insanity by the hours, I’m not goin’ crazy. I'll be comin' for yah, honey dog, on the edge of tomorrow, within the next fews days. How do I know this is true? Read my blog. Put us together on WordPress. Compliment to go, I’m so excited.
I am in my own city now. I have to get Nithish out of my consciousness or else insanity looms. I cannot carry him anymore. This is painful. I'm all out of sorts.
We have reconciled. He stood by while a cop tried to arrest me and said nothing. His mother had put the cop there because I had spoke to Nithish at his school, there to speak with his principal about the real reason his mother wouldn't let me see him, and I was concerned with her abuse.
As the cop tried to put me on his bike to take me away, Nithish was walking away and did not even look back. I had committed no crime, and so they could not take me in. Sandya stood by gloating, and then walked away disappointed when I wasn't nabbed.
The consciousness can't take that. It doesn't compute. I am finished holding him. This is terrible news. I had gone there to defend him, and I was worried sick over his situation. He all but pulled the trigger.
And I am left holding the gun. Nithish showed me a video on his mother's phone, which had gone to him. It was of his little brother masturbating, legs spread, penis erect, hand going at it. Sandya can be heard in the background laughing, but she didn't take the video. It's child pornography, but she said they did it in fun.
I've heard about for the last three years Nithish's father masturbating his little brothers, not diddling with it pumping it, for several minutes or more. He had tried to do Nithish, but Nithish said no. I did nothing with this information, except tell Nithish to say no. When Mithrin, the boy in the video, who's three and some, got big enough, his father masturbated him a lot, and Dhina, Nithish's auntie's husband, taught the boy how to spit on it and rub. Nithish told me these things. I heard all this, and just filed it away.
Dhina made the video, and now I'm left holdin' the gun. Do I shoot them with it? I don't want to hurt Nithish. So what do I do? I just leave the boy alone. I don't stand here and study him. I don't try to get him back to me. It's over. It's done.
Okay you've heard the news, why Nithish was taken from me. I mentioned that video to his mother and his father masturbating his brothers, to try and protect him from them. You see the results. Even the boy hates me, but I don't truly know that. Okay shoot me, public. I am the bad man here, turning that little boy against his family, and wanting him to go with me.
I thought I had a better home, and I wasn't his abuser, but you know kids are fickle. They hang on that family tree. I'm a nigger to him, a வெள்ளைக்காரன், and he just wants to be left alone. He's happy with the presents his parents buy him and the cater to his whim. And pain? Fuck pain. He wants his smile to be real.
So you have a masturbating video as the cause of all this charm that he's getting from his parents. They don't want him to tell on them, and they want his love for me gone. Well that did it, no word from him in days: daddy are you okay? what happened? I've been so worried about you.
He's just decided better go with it, his refusal of me. It's easier that way. Just ignore me and enjoy himself. I will never hear from him again. I can see that now. I've done my job, every possible thing I could do, to get him out of his parents' clutches and back towards the poet of the coming dawn, a destiny he had refused.
Now what do I do with this? I know the public you don't care. You would also have me arrested if you could. This may be my last poem. I'm throwing in the towel. We tried. We finished, and I failed.
Now glory in your self-righteousness, and tell me again you love kids. I don't believe that. Okay now I'm leavin' my little boy. You will not help, but I think I know what happened. He was totally afraid of his mother, that boy of twelve. There at the school she told him to renounce me and raised her hand to slap him. I grabbed that hand and pulled it down, and he did not give her what she wanted. She even put her hand over his face, so he couldn't see me. That's total control, and he had to go home with her afterwards.
What does a child do when the shit hits the fan? They stand there and cry, Ben 10 not included, or the Avatar and his gang. Nithish showed kid shock. He was just bewildered. He managed a weak head-bowed yes when I asked him if he loved me, and would he back me up. That was before the cop came. We were invited into the office to settle this dispute, by the principal before that cop arrived, but that Sandya refused. She wanted me arrested for defying her to see my boy.
We can't blame this on the kid. He's innocent in this, and I don't know how he feels now, but I can't continue hurting him and me. I can't love him like this. That little boy's been broken, stabbed in his identity, made to feel all alone in the world, put down for trying to hurt his parents, and at the same time they lift him up, afraid he'd tell.
What do we do with children, when they're in a bad situation, and our helping them hurts them more? We leave. We tear our heart out of our breast, put blinders on the soul, and just walk away. That's what I'm doing today. You with me?
Here is the address where the mother and the boys live and Sandya’s telephone number: +91 9384460042 64 Nettu St. Kurusukuppam, Puducherry, 605012 The street is only a tiny alleyway accessible from Advocate Chinnathambi St. Fourth Cross. On Sardar Vllabhai Patel Salai, a main road, turn left on Francois Martiin Street. Turn left again on Advocate Chinnathambi Street, about 500 meters from the Patel Salai. Go to Le Nid Apartments on Advocate ChinnaThambi Street, which is on the left where the street turns sharply right. Stand facing the apartment gates and turn right 90 degrees and you will see a little alleyway in front of you. Go down it and it immediately turns left and her house is the first door on the left. It is a very narrow alley. Time is of the essence. They are on their way to his father’s apartment in Chennai to avoid me. His address: Ashok Pillar 29 sector, 6th block Chennai, 2nd apartment building and the left, 1st floor, wooden door.
They spill your blood. They dust you off to kill you more. They know just when to sooth you and just when to bite. They eat you alive, and then laugh about it like they care for you, or you’re just not doin’ right. They lead you by the hand to amazing vistas of rose petals, a dire love, and then they cut your heart out in the very place they called you love.
This is diabolical. This is oh so sweet. You have some semblance there of hey hello it’s me; I am your love, remember? And those memories kill you because they’re insanely not there to make any more with you. You can’t touch that. You can only cry, helpless heaving cries that startle up your mind to insanity’s fallout. This touches you. This laughs at you. This enters your neck.
You are not there with them, that little boy you love, and he has lost his comfort zone, I mean really his whole life, to live in a shed with grey bones to sleep on and parents that finally get the chance to rub his nose in it: all these years for preferring me. Do you get the picture?
They torture me with that, the anarchs of pain, and his pain rends my breast and makes me want to kill myself because I want to shoot myself for his pain. What do I do?
I just sit here and tell you. No one will listen. We’re a racial mix, and I’m in a foreign land, and all’s people see is a red flag. They don’t know what they’re lookin’ at, and so they hurt us more, thinking we’ve sinned together as man and wife. The boy’s 12. You stupid people. That’s not the relationship.
We have love from the fountain of soul. I’m afraid this is as close as you can get, two people, and we’re suffering for that now. It’s there we love. It’s there we hope. It’s there we stand and face each other. You don’t mind. You only see yourself.
He’s forgotten about me. They try to tell me that. Oh he’s happy move on. But then I meet him in dream and vision, or talk to him on the phone, a forbidden enterprise he has to sneak to do, and I’ve found him again the lover of my life, where he was when they didn’t see him.
Kids aren’t all on pain. They’re not geared for that. Their mask just allows the public to see hey I’m alright; look I play and laugh and sing, but I’m not there you know; I’m inside with the pain, and you know I can’t hide it always, nor even very much.
So we’ve unlocked these doors, the Furies that punish us for so deep a love. What type of love is this? It's deep-seated parental feelings more than anything else. Can you get your head around that? It’s boy love without the sex. It’s a man’s embrace. It helped hold the world together in ancient times. I’m his tutor. I’m his love. I’m his friend, but most of all I hold his hand. I’m the one who guides him through life, and he is a spiritual arrangement. I do not love him if I abuse him, and that love starts my day, where I hold this little boy. There is no abuse here. I do not cut his teeth on silver diamonds.
Can a kid handle this? This has been humanity’s beef all along: you can’t take children and put ‘em in a box and make them obey there, protecting them from the world by protecting them from themselves. This is an ancient relationship I tell you, and it’s not bad, evil, or mean. It’s as wholesome as the night sky, as helpful as a forest moon. You can read us in volumes of poetry, and the boy has videos, and he’ll tell you about himself.
We have something new for the Earth, and integral healing plan that meets nature right where the Earth is, so the soul can express itself. We’re expressing soul. Do you hear that?
We don’t know how to arrive. We weren’t separated by parental concern. I’ve been his erastes for six years, a full on parental relationship. He mostly stayed with me for these half dozen years, but I was at his birth. He came into my life at one and a half, as this little tyke I helped take care of, and we have been doing this since he was three: I was a parent in the room.
Now you can take this and cut it up. accuse us of pederasty, but what you got here is two people in love, whatever the form, and it’s right relationship. I test you to go and see. We’ve left public record, starting since when he was three.
Okay crowd, we let the parents arrange this, with their hate and their spite and their mean, because they are jealous of our relationship? And are at this very moment forcing themselves on the boy, and he doesn’t want that. He wants to be home with me.
I’ve laid it all out on the table, told you the story. What do you want, social change, where kids meet bigger people, or do you want the kids to remain the same and do not change the nature of man, so we can become better people and save the world? I’m lookin’ you in the eye. Engage our social media, the boy’s and I. We will change the world.
Watched this film, and then the second poem came, the long one, an hour after, and it came all night.
The Banality of Evil, We’re Watchin’ a Different Movie
This is grand cinema. You’re left wonderin’ over its price. Are you opened to that puppy? Just to the pain it caused. Just to its wherewith with evil. We need more from cinema, powerfully done. I’m the long ride. I’ll get you there on sudden bleeds: you will identify with the snake, or your heart pounding no. I heal awhile. Listen to me.
To Heal Holocaust
Heal God. Boy God has done some bad shit, if we count Him responsible for everything, if we say He’s the doer here. How do we get round this table? And now the poem starts. Let’s write it.
You must know into the most horrible places. I’ve climbed down there and got burned. I can identify with the snake. I’ve opened Holocaust doors by beer-bottlin’ a boy. He cried and then got tough. I hit him again and again with that beer yard, two or three boys.
It didn’t make me throw up. I took pleasure from their pain. The control I had, I was in their control room and I knew it. Their weakness turned me on, their vulnerability. I liked it.
This is a Holocaust memorial. It’s not me writin’ on myself. I showin’ where it came from, that and a knife blade. These smites transform into big smites, transform into Holocaust. I'm helpin' you some. I’m going ludicrous. I’m just stupid sayin’ this.
Let’s change poems. What do you feel when you hurt people, your power over them? No you feel your delight that it’s not you. We’re explorin’ some. It’s a probe. Not every formula has got this written on it, but somethin’ happened to you, when you could not fight back, too little to do anything about it. It scarred you. Now you’re investigatin’ that reality, and it’s your hands cause pain, your thrust of life.
This is not healin’ you’re doin’. You just keep doin’ it, a wack in reality that repeats itself, with your hands. What do you do to stop? I can’t get yah there. It’s too wide open. Jeffery Dahmer pulled the plug. Then he started killin’ again. You didn’t know he suffered. You didn’t know he didn’t turn that down, his longness in the inner cycle. Where do we go for change? Wrapped up in an investigation of yourself, you open the inner doors.
Really watch yourself in dream. The plug will come up. You’ll eventually pull it the right way. You just keep erasin’ mood, that spell that comes over yah when you’re around water, when you’re at that place you can do it. This is your fault line, and it’s inner sprung.
You’ve got to get ahold of your behavior, on the inside where it starts. This ain’t hard/this is not easy. [two above phrases heard spoken simultaneously] You’ll see how it’s done in your visual immune system. Message, it will message you. It gives a little chance for you to aim behavior rightly.
You’ve got to get ahold of the bull. You’ve got to grab it by the horns. I took years here, in Holocaust denial. It’s when you begin to see it it’s the hardest. You can’t close the curtains, even when you do it. You can touch it and move it around. You’re puttin’ light down there. This is not about feeling guilty. This is about recognizing pain.
What is true remorse? You feel pain buddy, making other people suffer, but you’re still not in the geography bowl. Look on these two: the ordination of love, and the realizing of oneness. How deep you have to go to get there, how much time pass.
This is integral healing. I know someone that can’t even rise a fantasy. The light got down there. You feel the vulnerability of the other, and you just want to hold them in your arms safe. You can believe you did that. You can see yourself doin’ it, not playin’ it in your mind, I mean it had sergeant over you before, but you’re at peace with it, and you put it out of your room.
We have no laws for this. We’re not ready to find it. There are too many of us to make it safe. It’s good for the environment. I wasn’t so bad I chained people. I was a love roll. I know you don’t understand this. The assurities of Adolf Hitler, that was absurd, and afterwards so complex. It was positively brilliant. Wow, you said brilliant. We would eat lunch there. I’m not bragging it. I’m not starring it. Nobody has a secret weapon to find change in these dark waters.
I’m putting a healing light to it, using my own brand. You don’t know the fashion of evil. You think it comes from us. Its dark nature rises from the Abyss. There are creatures there on a beanpole, with tremendous might, that invade our dreams and conscious minds, and tell our hearts to do things. They are compulsion’s will, and they are smarter than us. Oh my God they’re there, right in our room, pushing us to fall.
What do you do with that? Where do you put it? They don’t give up, and we have to put up with them, on our world endeavor. That’s not fair. It’s not even funny. It’s a stark reality we have to live with. So when you’re coming out of darkness, you’re confronting these, the Snake in your room.
Oh my God they are blind, the ones who hate you for the evil you have done. They’re just self-righteous idiots, and they will see when this is done, when their life’s over, the complexities of fate, the manage devils in your room, the horrible nature of reality in its bottom lair.
We have to contend with this to overcome fate. We cannot escape it. I’ve mentioned the ballgame, what we’re really here for, to change our nature into God dwellers, to spiritualize, divinize, Nature. I’ve pulled the rank card, and you are blind to this. It’s too big. It’s the science of changing your nature, and your own process will see that glory immune system, the one I talk in visions and dreams, the one I talk now. It holds your hand here, and now we are complete: God heals.
Harm's End 