The Sanctum

Welcome, traveller. This be the realm of Jay Niner, where everything be possible, and nothing ever happens. If, perchance, thou wisheth to tarry, then find thou a page from the Grimoire and read. For we are here in eternity, and we are in medias res.


Once more.

So, here we are again. Or perhaps I should say, here YOU are, at another post in my repertoire. What should this one pertain to?
Obviously the good things in life, to which I raise my glass of heavily spiked rum, of course; that which we love to do.
Yet a worry lies on my heart, reader, a worry that threatens to consume me unless I address it directly, face-to-face.
A worry so odd yet so distressing, a worry that threatens to tear my pace.

A worry, reader, of being too long-winded.
Or perhaps just plain one-sided.
Writing for my own pleasure is not a crime. In fact, to me it's the best way of writing; fuck criticism. Fuck whatever anyone else has to say.
For out of fine material has god made an artist; out of the leftover rubbish made he three critics to hold the artist at bay.

Yet a purpose must be kept. Even in idleness is a purpose; even in misery a joy.
Yet it may not be the idle who keeps a purpose, nor the miser his joy, which only he enjoys who troubles the miser and remains coy.
You get my point?
Please, don't rush, wait till I finish my joint.

A very famous poet did once write "In Xanadu," a splendid fellow who believed that was a source, inebriation;
Of that which fuels artists and grants them relief from boredom; the source, sir, of inspiration.
"Inspired" goes the tagline for some product I can't remember.
Sighing in disappointment, I can comprehend dimly, my memory did these years dismember.

Ah, yes; these wonderful fucksome years I will never forget, may my vocabulary never run out of words to describe it.. enough said.
Most days I come back cradling more than disappointment, and so disoriented that I may take a snake to my bed-
And hope that it in the morning, neither snake nor I may be in the room.
Spare the snake, I would, for PETA is a fire-breathing monster in this age; I only wish for myself that doom.

Spare the rod and infuriate the child.
Yes, the youth of today has boundless energy when riled-
But it fades, as everything must. Time is the ultimate assassin and can destroy empires yet nuture a sapling to mature greatness only to destroy that as well.
Time, the ultimate leveller. Time the master of the universe. Time the motherfucker, ringing enjoyment's death-knell.

Sad it is, and I hate to be Yoda with his twisted talk and unhinged brain at the end of episode six.
That recently came on Pix-
I missed it and watched a porno instead.
Of course, that is what I will do and am doing and did.

Girlfriends come and go, whores even faster. Yet all that is left to accompany us is not our friends or family- even they pass away.
If you're a man, you know what it is- the lingam, to put it politely. Bombs away.
Pity that I must use the same word twice to rhyme but I am so high that I have for some insane reason taken the laptop to the terrace of my apartment, waiting for the battery to give out.
And to my dreams of writing a hugely insane poem without reason nor sense, rout.

And lo- it flashes! As the Lord giveth- the lord taketh away, and I watch the remains of my poem dissolve formlessly into the ether of the universe-
And finish this poem with a bloody good curse:

"Teri maa ki chut HP ki harami bhosadchod aulad!"

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