Fictopia E-Book

Anand Bose

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

This is an experimental work of fiction. James Joyce wrote an epic novel Ulysses spanning 12 hrs in a man's life. This work is an epic that focuses on seconds. The entire  book is made of thoughts happening in seconds written in the language of streams of consciousness. 

Leseprobe

Anand Bose

Fictopia

This dedicated to darling Anu. BookRix GmbH & Co. KG80331 Munich

Fictopia

What is consciousness? Is it crack, pot, mumbo jumbo…There are I see colors on wings flitting in angelic loops…Is it an archetype of the heart? Where is my mind? Come on shit, it’s not in asshole…Where is individuality? Where is the soul? I am wondering about my own existence…I am fully conscious now….I have been having many dreams lately…erotic ones…Proust wrote remembrance of things past being inspired by an orange peel? Time is sinking now into an abyss…Consciousness is Dali’s melting clock….Is individuality a blast furnace… I am a do-good-body. When I think of God, I realize I am nothing…Time is now a boring cigarette…I am sending out smoke rings…The ears are echoing Bach…Words are littered in garbage of symphonies…A mosquito is buzzing past ….How I wish to be immersed in her cunt…

Time is a vacant dream….Where are the characters? To write is to poem in madness? Art where is Dionysus …the mad villain of rhythm beat and altered states of consciousness? Smoking pot makes me think of sex….My words are a chorus of cacophony…Time is weed! Peace…Gandhi. I am a Christian anarchist? Conspiracy theories are ghosts floating in the air. My body is an echo of music…All this is happening in seconds…Mynahs ate tweeting….tweet, tweet, tweet….Coffee I am gulping you like a savage…Nirvana is an orgasm…Life is a boom and depression just like business cycles? I think of my great-grandmother chewing tobacco. She used to love it…Poetry rains in prose…In absurdity there’s an eclectic catharsis…Literature is a carnival of the libido….Essence is gratification…I feel her body like poetic prose…Why should wars exist? Peace, Ahimsa …nonviolence ….Jihadis are fucked up violence… I dream of Hitler in Hell stinking with smell of burning flesh… Eternity I have found a heaven in you…

Consciousness, you have warped the soul…Where is passion? I like it when she and she melted into flowers of an orgasm. Why be the proud Apollo of melody? Joyce wrote an epic of 12hrs in 800 pages. I am writing a gospel epic of seconds…Let me float into a dream? Blessed are ecstatic: for they shall obtain ecstasy….Realism of the novel has shrunk into a blister ….Surrealism grows weeds out of brains…Fetish, you are found in breasts, cunt, hips, thighs and ankles…I worship you like a Goddess of art…I am pulpifiying fiction into libidinal strips… Saw a rock carved out like the phallus…An elephant is going on the road …its huge dick is hanging down…I am the Ghost of Walter De La Mare….I echo a music of words…Tranquility, you are an orgasm…McCarthys are chasing America…I have a white mind, a black soul and a brown body…I am a anarchist and a nihilist….My first love is wound that never heals? She is fucking dead now. Rest in peace my dear Sheba. Van Gogh you are drowned in the petals of impressionism…The smile of Mona Liza …damn a mystic enigma…Sodom is the curse of God…Let me frown into a poem of words…Wiccans are woman’s G-spot. Time has left me in many seconds of thought. Sunday I am a Quaker, going to church. Metaphors are the mind and metonymies the body. The WORD is holy and sacred. Time, where is thy charm? Christ, you are beatitude of love….Prometheus you are the body’s freedom…She has sprinkled vermillion on her forehead…It is the sign of the third eye…Time is an enigma….a mystic chalice…I am thinking of my dad lying in the grave….Dad I am sorry for harboring beastly thoughts about you…I am a cliché, a wounded ethnic metaphor…Dreams are the chrysalis of hope…they are metaphors of faith…The metropolis is a wounded body…I have made love to an adulteress …it was passionate poetry…