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Tripping Hollywood

His his whose whose for us. Bena bought few couple of Spas strips. One for me, another for the otherized local selfified long soul of Bena. Tripartite risky game for two of us. He liked to join, fingers held together with joint lit. My body relapses as spring, as I can trace its journey from immediate past to projected future. How is not so easy grammar for changing atmosphere of solipcisistic desire prone walk through jungle road. Me thought of twenty thousand leagues under the super brat rat hole syndrome of staying inside the locked open door. The door was never open. My chalice bore through ignoble guests and big hand for the by passers. How is where upon the shoulder of my own charismatic filial bondship with torpedo ridden who’s who of the locality. Life admonishes the vomit spree, yet I can’t stop. Puking in high drain solvent with massacre of olive branches, I thought of the Gaza. Nil is the sky spatiality, in ration with my body relapses. I go get the planetarium. Life reckons with the chief minister of spas pull. Bena, the local express. I tripped to the toe and thought about George Lukacs, and his solemn Second Nature. History being the otherized half of Nature, to the core of infiltration between the membranes of brain turd and morphine afflicted Codeine inertia. I stood there for millions of years. History is resolved through genesis of Biblical myth. I passed the garage song, never selling for two Anna of parental guidance. I relapsed through the junkhood admonishing empty sticker of Bena’s walk past the road. His his, whose whose solved. I stay home; he goes out with the cash. I love to be with the other half of solvent stricken Neo-Platonist argument of formal gestation. The form becomes the content of daily authorship with Spas and Codeine junk. Loving was there at the end of the street. I resisted the bankruptcy of whose galleons, the fixture ad-hocing through life’s imbecility. Random life’s motion for junk ridden halo of Benjaminian Troubadour. Halo was her’s. Life distinguishes between One and Two. I was at One with Oneness. Each One is different and also same. Sameness awaits. One with its all resolving Junk ridden Oneness of Amor Fati.

Jeet Bhattacharya
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