raningdeo is lord of poogul

raningdeo is lord of poogul
annals and antiquities of todast'han

a quadritridvadashamrilleglia

for horses or humans or spirits or litters

on the occasion of the days of the dead

with thanks to the myths in time and the times of myth

for the majnūn, who know no rest
whose voice is the disavowed word

raningdeo is lord of poogul, a fief of jessulmer, its heir sadoo the terror returning from a foray with a train of captured motbots and calendars and society settling like a tin djinn into its domestic night

the town itself is nothing, a ghazipur of discontinuities rising from the rohilkhand into a babel of stench and religion that were it transit might be charred rakes derailed with their corpses still in bed

the terror runs now from azamgarh to renukoot, its pillage clanking through the many meters of its draw and time and words like cracked fotdellas on a pilgrimage to a ghost museum of the memory of noise

raningdeo’s not in poogul but feudal rawul bersi and the mooltans tend to the lord’s tender tenders which have weakened due to changes in the politics of movement and a hump slug’s usurpation

majnūn don’t rule the town and some say in disputed tales its rabid refuse rises from the majnūn’s lack of power, not in sigils and the like but in vivo in the councils in cloister in that scrimmage in the night

its heir like wallabies rides now like clepsydral drops of chartreuse green, its capture clunk and skeleton and days like charades of mobs in objectless trances in thrall to hydroponic hallucinations of a diwali bed

raningdeo was born in poogul but jessulmer’s the thing and it scuttles subbul sing of feeroz when it can though the rahtore-bhattis of mehwo-birsil dislike this subterfuging and make behind a lot of noise

waste like love’s not much of time but in accursed excess comes into time and so the town has much of waste and little love and the majnūn hide in death’s and language’s conjunction, that usurpation

from foray to poogul tears raningdeo’s scion, all booties flying now like english pigeons who’ve sloughed their heritage to scrying ghouls infiltrating the souls of christians in the pull and track of night

but raningdeo’s, who will not die in poogul but baber rawul bersi in no care of rao’s ensemble neither economical nor kind and jessulmer like polymers an ideal chain of random walking, in bed

so the town like talk or clocks scrabbles to heights of middenness which in turn return the gaze and sniff on lonely majnūn loafing through the lands of thoughts of corpses turning a different noise

sadoo, as the bed of bersi fades and the lord’s night roused, as noise of toxic mountain nears and majnūn falter to dawns of screeching pillage, too falls to a reeking council’s cloister’s usurpation

the madness that has been socially politically and philosophically repressed

has nonetheless made itself heard

has survived as a speaking subject

only in and through literary texts

between literature and madness there exists an obscure but essential kinship

a kinship entailed precisely by whatever blocks them off

by that which destines them alike to repression and disavowal