Sunday, September 25, 2011
My Lord, for comfort!
The cushion lounged,
sat back on its revered bum, flanked
by two carefree attendants
Who liked nothing more
than to emulate their liege lord,
albeit they were given only to produce
a more squashed-looking facsimile.
On that regal dais,
sketchy-looking pages lay, bowed,
having come unbound of what adhered them once
to their hardbound face, although they still
maintained sibling cohesion.
And so they beseeched
the royal bolsters to grant them
shelter and patronage.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Conversations
All the current literature state sanctimoniously that listening is a quality to be cherished and cultivated. Textbooks, morals, TV shows all talking everywhichwhere about the virtue of the listener. "Ooh, I'm a great listener," brags this friend of mine, unabashedly, just having got off a sermon of a phone conversation, in which she had delivered earnest advice to this love-lorn friend of hers for, like, half an hour straight.
Everywhere I go, though, people are actually hounding the conversation and steering the flow of debate towards their ideas and liking. It's the sign of the successful human being that he ensure that he is in full control of a situation. Allowing another person's ideas and notions to cordon the conversation, I've found in my experience, is tantamount to succumbing to death.
I'm faced with a moral dilemma everytime I enter into a conversation. Are you supposed to listen wholeheartedly, submissively even, or come to the fore with views of your own, even it they're harsh or abrasive, and potentially dangerous for that matter? I guess the key would be not to have harsh, abrasive views. Also, it so happens that I'm shit scared of advancing views these days lest they be held against me or misconstrued. This happens very often, so I find my fear understandable.
Lord, help me hold my own and not get washed down under the merciless cascade of someone else's views. I beseech yous, World o' mine, let's all just work with the power we have on our own. No one needs to stomp on another person to feel a power surge. We all have power of our own. I think it ought to be enough if we cultivate our own. I don't even wanna know how this view is going to come back to bite me.
Maybe God'll sink his teeth into me today.
Everywhere I go, though, people are actually hounding the conversation and steering the flow of debate towards their ideas and liking. It's the sign of the successful human being that he ensure that he is in full control of a situation. Allowing another person's ideas and notions to cordon the conversation, I've found in my experience, is tantamount to succumbing to death.
I'm faced with a moral dilemma everytime I enter into a conversation. Are you supposed to listen wholeheartedly, submissively even, or come to the fore with views of your own, even it they're harsh or abrasive, and potentially dangerous for that matter? I guess the key would be not to have harsh, abrasive views. Also, it so happens that I'm shit scared of advancing views these days lest they be held against me or misconstrued. This happens very often, so I find my fear understandable.
Lord, help me hold my own and not get washed down under the merciless cascade of someone else's views. I beseech yous, World o' mine, let's all just work with the power we have on our own. No one needs to stomp on another person to feel a power surge. We all have power of our own. I think it ought to be enough if we cultivate our own. I don't even wanna know how this view is going to come back to bite me.
Maybe God'll sink his teeth into me today.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Eternal mirth and mindful satisfaction
Future tidings rang out
and sounded strong gongs.
The acolyte drank in the clamour
and digested them as silken songs.
Of eternal mirth and mindful satisfaction.
Every act and thought
became a rectifying mercy.
Steep steps climbed
all the way to pleasing surety.
In eternal mirth and mindful satisfaction.
Three doors above,
the dragon expired with a start.
With its final blow it called the shrieking ogre
to come claim its heart.
Of eternal mirth and mindful satisfaction.
Complexities unravelled,
subtleties ran outside to play.
In the sunny morning,
every cell made hay.
With eternal mirth and mindful satisfaction.
Fleets came together in solidity,
captured by an even speedier instant.
Things were said as they were
and meanings, like they were meant.
For eternal mirth and mindful satisfaction.
and sounded strong gongs.
The acolyte drank in the clamour
and digested them as silken songs.
Of eternal mirth and mindful satisfaction.
Every act and thought
became a rectifying mercy.
Steep steps climbed
all the way to pleasing surety.
In eternal mirth and mindful satisfaction.
Three doors above,
the dragon expired with a start.
With its final blow it called the shrieking ogre
to come claim its heart.
Of eternal mirth and mindful satisfaction.
Complexities unravelled,
subtleties ran outside to play.
In the sunny morning,
every cell made hay.
With eternal mirth and mindful satisfaction.
Fleets came together in solidity,
captured by an even speedier instant.
Things were said as they were
and meanings, like they were meant.
For eternal mirth and mindful satisfaction.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Survival indistinct? Kicketh in survival instinct
The fish called F swam in the sea. F had its fins to guide it through the water, its eyes to see, and its digestive system to process nutrients for its sustenance. Its gills were smoothly functioning respirators. It did not ever have to wonder about anything, for the answer was always apparent without needing even to be asked. F was very happy, for it knew its environment like the back of its fin. It also knew how its neighbours and colleagues functioned, what made them tick. Therefore, it did not ever fear what the other fish might do to it, for it knew the other fish could never gain access to its treasured pearls. The other fish would never seek to or be able to devour it, for F's success was indispensable to the ecosystem, and the other fish relied on it for their own livelihood. There was no question of worry, anxiety or trouble, for everything was negotiable, and success was a birthright. Life was fluid and nice.
One fine morning, as the rays of the sun glistened off the surface of a recumbent oyster (it was such a bucolic day as of usual), F found that something was thrusting it upwards, applying an insidious pressure on its underside. F, strangely, felt an odd resentment to this. It was odd that it should feel resentment towards this upward thrust; it was this very same ascensionary pressure that F felt and thrived on day in, day out. So, why was it experiencing an antagonism towards something it had always loved and trusted? A strange anxiety began to grip F and slowly, but surely, F was paralysed. It just could not move through the water. Desperate, F sent shooting bursts of neural instruction to its tailfin for it to move and propel its body forward, it thrashed and flailed, but the water seemed intractable. F seemed no longer to have any clout with the water. The other fish were staring at it, their big fishy eyes agape. They seemed genuinely concerned about the plight F appeared to be in. They seemed to want to help, and they crowded around F, trying to observe it from all angles.
Some told F that it had to kick its tailfin harder, that it was guilty of laziness and lacking in self-love. If F could speak, it might have been able to explain that the state it was in seemed to be one of doom, that there seemed nothing within its power to make its tailfin move. But its explanations were incoherent. None of its famed, trusted mental clarity seemed able to work, and whenever F tried to speak, only hazy spumes of seawater and seasand took shape. No communication could take place.
Soon, the relationship between it and the other fish became confrontative. F did not understand why such smart, successful diagnosticians among the other fish were clueless about how to effect a cure in him. Truth be told, F was horribly frustrated with itself and the mutinous water which would no longer be friends with it. And with the exasperation the other fish displayed at F's seemingly stubborn refrain that it was feeling incorrigibly incapacitated, F began to feel like the other fish were in some way responsible for his insane condition.
As F reflected on memories of its past triumphs and wondered how to revanche lost territory, it only encountered wispy semblances which, it appeared, need not even ever have been true. It began to doubt its past, its self, its very core right to love, success and life. These were dreary times, they were.
F knew it did not want to be swimming with the fishes. It wanted to be eligible to partake once more of the wonders and beauties of its Life.
Then F experienced a sharp tug that dragged it straight upwards, towards the light. F went along, but never succumbed to the despondent submission of labeling sadness as being its inherent nature. So long as the pathology persisted, F never stopped squirming and sulking, and thus did it confirm what must constitute success and happiness to it. F did never give in. F was a fish ordained to see the ether after all.
One fine morning, Life became a breeze. F was a flying fish.
One fine morning, as the rays of the sun glistened off the surface of a recumbent oyster (it was such a bucolic day as of usual), F found that something was thrusting it upwards, applying an insidious pressure on its underside. F, strangely, felt an odd resentment to this. It was odd that it should feel resentment towards this upward thrust; it was this very same ascensionary pressure that F felt and thrived on day in, day out. So, why was it experiencing an antagonism towards something it had always loved and trusted? A strange anxiety began to grip F and slowly, but surely, F was paralysed. It just could not move through the water. Desperate, F sent shooting bursts of neural instruction to its tailfin for it to move and propel its body forward, it thrashed and flailed, but the water seemed intractable. F seemed no longer to have any clout with the water. The other fish were staring at it, their big fishy eyes agape. They seemed genuinely concerned about the plight F appeared to be in. They seemed to want to help, and they crowded around F, trying to observe it from all angles.
Some told F that it had to kick its tailfin harder, that it was guilty of laziness and lacking in self-love. If F could speak, it might have been able to explain that the state it was in seemed to be one of doom, that there seemed nothing within its power to make its tailfin move. But its explanations were incoherent. None of its famed, trusted mental clarity seemed able to work, and whenever F tried to speak, only hazy spumes of seawater and seasand took shape. No communication could take place.
Soon, the relationship between it and the other fish became confrontative. F did not understand why such smart, successful diagnosticians among the other fish were clueless about how to effect a cure in him. Truth be told, F was horribly frustrated with itself and the mutinous water which would no longer be friends with it. And with the exasperation the other fish displayed at F's seemingly stubborn refrain that it was feeling incorrigibly incapacitated, F began to feel like the other fish were in some way responsible for his insane condition.
As F reflected on memories of its past triumphs and wondered how to revanche lost territory, it only encountered wispy semblances which, it appeared, need not even ever have been true. It began to doubt its past, its self, its very core right to love, success and life. These were dreary times, they were.
F knew it did not want to be swimming with the fishes. It wanted to be eligible to partake once more of the wonders and beauties of its Life.
Then F experienced a sharp tug that dragged it straight upwards, towards the light. F went along, but never succumbed to the despondent submission of labeling sadness as being its inherent nature. So long as the pathology persisted, F never stopped squirming and sulking, and thus did it confirm what must constitute success and happiness to it. F did never give in. F was a fish ordained to see the ether after all.
One fine morning, Life became a breeze. F was a flying fish.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
When your life is an inexorable situation, in which negativity and powerlessness surround you completely and cannot be shrugged off whatsoever, nor placated, coaxed, pleaded with, or entreated into loosening their vice-like grip on your soul/mind/brain/self, and there appears not the tiniest cranny into which your spirit can slip for some solace or redemption, either of two things must be happening:
* You have been cursed by something/someone malevolent, and all the components of your life are being puppeteered, monitored and regulated constantly into keeping you mired in the state of chronic negativity, or...
* You have a mental disease you'd better get checked out asap if you want to live a life of basic human dignity.
Of course, it is theoretically possible that you have been thrust into a dystopia which is actually a phenomenon/experience whose culmination will liberate you, fulfilling your original, long-obscured life purpose and therefore is good for you.
Rainbows, sweet-smelling daisies, dainty butterflies, fresh-cut grass in the dewy morning, seaside breeze that is redolent of a new book, warm clothing, love, success and good wishes.
* You have been cursed by something/someone malevolent, and all the components of your life are being puppeteered, monitored and regulated constantly into keeping you mired in the state of chronic negativity, or...
* You have a mental disease you'd better get checked out asap if you want to live a life of basic human dignity.
Of course, it is theoretically possible that you have been thrust into a dystopia which is actually a phenomenon/experience whose culmination will liberate you, fulfilling your original, long-obscured life purpose and therefore is good for you.
Rainbows, sweet-smelling daisies, dainty butterflies, fresh-cut grass in the dewy morning, seaside breeze that is redolent of a new book, warm clothing, love, success and good wishes.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Wealth redistribution
He arose one morning,
and saw the moon recede.
Thanked sufficiently, the lunar pearl
had once again became a bead.
He plucked the marbles,
hitherto flotsam, adrift,
frazzled in the ether,
and threaded them back as his gift.
Soon, he began to plunder
all his wealth back
from the hooded robins
that had once pronounced him a hack.
With a kindly altruist,
he exchanged verbs of warmth.
Disallowing the bypass of his filters,
he would know he saved himself from all harms.
His currency sniffed the market
and deemed it safe to emerge;
Its deep slumber
had given it a new surge.
and saw the moon recede.
Thanked sufficiently, the lunar pearl
had once again became a bead.
He plucked the marbles,
hitherto flotsam, adrift,
frazzled in the ether,
and threaded them back as his gift.
Soon, he began to plunder
all his wealth back
from the hooded robins
that had once pronounced him a hack.
With a kindly altruist,
he exchanged verbs of warmth.
Disallowing the bypass of his filters,
he would know he saved himself from all harms.
His currency sniffed the market
and deemed it safe to emerge;
Its deep slumber
had given it a new surge.
The falsehood is thriving! All eyes are seeing, feigning obliviousness.
The mongrels have gathered around and are cackling their prey into submission. Isn't this an opprobrium? Where is the magistrate?
Why isn't Radiohead doing anything about this? Why are their songs not potent enough to expurgate this atmosphere? We demand clean oxygen for our living children, Dear Sir! This happens to be a family movie. Kindly desist from having it masquerade as an exploitation film. Does the Censor board know about this... Or are they in on this too?
Calling all cops, calling all cops, blare those sirens.
Sniffing for health.... It's still rabid out there, so we'll take our bottle along everywhere won't we?
The mongrels have gathered around and are cackling their prey into submission. Isn't this an opprobrium? Where is the magistrate?
Why isn't Radiohead doing anything about this? Why are their songs not potent enough to expurgate this atmosphere? We demand clean oxygen for our living children, Dear Sir! This happens to be a family movie. Kindly desist from having it masquerade as an exploitation film. Does the Censor board know about this... Or are they in on this too?
Calling all cops, calling all cops, blare those sirens.
Sniffing for health.... It's still rabid out there, so we'll take our bottle along everywhere won't we?
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Till then, I Pray
I'm sorry, World. I'm an asshole only because my mind is corrupted. I don't mean to say that you did this to me, but it's just that I don't see anyone else around, and I know I don't hate myself, so I feel like taking you to court so you can please recompense me for all the tyranny I've gone through for your amusement.
This sarcasm, if found to be unfounded, has to be condoned. I know you deem that lie evil which has not infused enough belief in its own self. And belieflessness is the very disease I have. So, anything I say, anything I be, is inherently prone to seeming stupid/evil/intolerable/contemptible. But see here, I'm going to ride my contempt to freedom, since that is all you will give me. And maybe, one day, when you're tired of condemning me, you'll get your kicks out of giving me what I want.
Till then, I pray.
This sarcasm, if found to be unfounded, has to be condoned. I know you deem that lie evil which has not infused enough belief in its own self. And belieflessness is the very disease I have. So, anything I say, anything I be, is inherently prone to seeming stupid/evil/intolerable/contemptible. But see here, I'm going to ride my contempt to freedom, since that is all you will give me. And maybe, one day, when you're tired of condemning me, you'll get your kicks out of giving me what I want.
Till then, I pray.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Serenading the sky
The crazed boy looked at the sky and started to wink in a most impish, affable manner. He knew if he befriended the sky, it would be an eternal source of solace for him. He wouldn't ever need to face the anxiety of being friendless.
The blue visage was acting coy. One moment, it would beam down at him in a show of affected conciliation, and the next, it would begin to perspire on him dismissively. The boy, for a long time, was at a loss.
Then he began to speak to it. He tilted his cranium heavenwards, and began to mumble sacred words imbued with attractive power; these words were earnest and woven from his very depths. He took steps, propelling his body wherever the perpetual canopy stretched, and found that his vitality was replenished and augmented with every footfall.
The sky had accepted him, he began to feel; and he began to feel.
The blue visage was acting coy. One moment, it would beam down at him in a show of affected conciliation, and the next, it would begin to perspire on him dismissively. The boy, for a long time, was at a loss.
Then he began to speak to it. He tilted his cranium heavenwards, and began to mumble sacred words imbued with attractive power; these words were earnest and woven from his very depths. He took steps, propelling his body wherever the perpetual canopy stretched, and found that his vitality was replenished and augmented with every footfall.
The sky had accepted him, he began to feel; and he began to feel.
Friday, August 26, 2011
It's a bitch to live in a world you think is fabricated. The world may or may not really be so, but just the fact that it appears to you as such is enough to rob you of sanity. I find I just can't build an understanding of the world when I feel like everything that meets my eye is something placed deliberately for the sole purpose of bamboozling me.
This disillusionment seems to have subverted my mind and brain so that all my precepts, ideas and concepts are rendered way too incongruous and amorphous to be recallable or discernable any more. This is why I seem to be tearing inexorably down a sheer decline into unmitigated dullardness. Well, of course, eternal hope keeps enthusing me to force myself to believe that I will break out of this cocoon of doom sometime very soon, but this eternal hope is constantly under merciless assault from my overall situation and everyday experiences.
Now, I know that this tirade of articulation does not ring true to my alleged mental ineptitude, but I'm not going to deny myself these fleetingly rare halcyon periods just to prove a point.
Of course, Mother tells me I am doing myself a great disfavour by not trusting things the way they appear. She's totally right, but prima facie authenticity is something I have long been forced to mistrust. If things were indeed as they appeared to be, I would not have gaping lacunae in my understanding of the world. There must be a world beyond the apparent one, where all the chemistry happens and the well-oiled mechanisms work their cogs into effects and phenomena.
Oh, to have eyes that could glimpse that glistening chamber of secrets. Please, oh please, let me run about every once in a while in that dewy meadow of gladdening information; I promise I'll set aside a portion of my earnings to pay my dues.
This disillusionment seems to have subverted my mind and brain so that all my precepts, ideas and concepts are rendered way too incongruous and amorphous to be recallable or discernable any more. This is why I seem to be tearing inexorably down a sheer decline into unmitigated dullardness. Well, of course, eternal hope keeps enthusing me to force myself to believe that I will break out of this cocoon of doom sometime very soon, but this eternal hope is constantly under merciless assault from my overall situation and everyday experiences.
Now, I know that this tirade of articulation does not ring true to my alleged mental ineptitude, but I'm not going to deny myself these fleetingly rare halcyon periods just to prove a point.
Of course, Mother tells me I am doing myself a great disfavour by not trusting things the way they appear. She's totally right, but prima facie authenticity is something I have long been forced to mistrust. If things were indeed as they appeared to be, I would not have gaping lacunae in my understanding of the world. There must be a world beyond the apparent one, where all the chemistry happens and the well-oiled mechanisms work their cogs into effects and phenomena.
Oh, to have eyes that could glimpse that glistening chamber of secrets. Please, oh please, let me run about every once in a while in that dewy meadow of gladdening information; I promise I'll set aside a portion of my earnings to pay my dues.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Pre-menstrual disdain
Deep, underneath the surface
there was a monster
that cried for its lotus;
all the while, wondering,
would its language suffice
to invoke the Sun?
To spend its time fruitfully
it loved to create ambiences
that dovetailed metrically;
knitted in fluid webs
of candid perfection
that spoke no lies?
Memory kept fading
just to flaunt its indispensability
to all those who were cursed to forget;
the accursed lost access everyday
to who they were
and what they meant.
The eye will strut the globe
in claret robes of clear
and untainted contentment;
that is
so the way
to be.
there was a monster
that cried for its lotus;
all the while, wondering,
would its language suffice
to invoke the Sun?
To spend its time fruitfully
it loved to create ambiences
that dovetailed metrically;
knitted in fluid webs
of candid perfection
that spoke no lies?
Memory kept fading
just to flaunt its indispensability
to all those who were cursed to forget;
the accursed lost access everyday
to who they were
and what they meant.
The eye will strut the globe
in claret robes of clear
and untainted contentment;
that is
so the way
to be.
Friday, August 19, 2011
godhelpedme
The fairy glided up to the boy and asked him what time he wanted to be liberated. He told her he preferred 1330 hrs. And then he went to meditate.
No one ever wants to talk about it, man. And the worst part about that is, it makes you believe that the thing you wanted to talk about isn't even there. And that doesn't relieve me with its suggestion of a lack of a problem warranting discussion. It gives me this really deep feeling of nihilism.
Like say you have a problem. And rather than diagnose it, treat it or provide some solution/coping mechanism for it, they try to make it out that there isn't any problem to begin with. What can you do then? Where are you left when your family doctor, the guy you trustingly called up to ask why your spleen hurts so bad, takes advantage of your temporary weakness and makes away with your organs? Damn, that's morbid.
See, because the point is that when you admit your problem, you're admitting that you're stupid enough not to know how to handle it yourself. When you do that, you enable them to fill your head up with any story they care to concoct. And you have to believe it, because you don't have your own answers. It's called 'faith'. And it's holy, because you have to accept it without questioning, especially since you have no other choice. God forbid that you point out some inherent flaws in the story you're being told, or offer the anxiety that you have been misunderstood. It would just be construed as arrogance, or labelled as the very same stubbornness on your part because of which the problem persists.
Anyhoo, I wish I could talk. I wish stuff could be talked about, and not be so friggin ineffable all the time; it would really help clear my doubts and set things right for me and my mind. These doubts are eating my mind away. I want my mind back.
Like say you have a problem. And rather than diagnose it, treat it or provide some solution/coping mechanism for it, they try to make it out that there isn't any problem to begin with. What can you do then? Where are you left when your family doctor, the guy you trustingly called up to ask why your spleen hurts so bad, takes advantage of your temporary weakness and makes away with your organs? Damn, that's morbid.
See, because the point is that when you admit your problem, you're admitting that you're stupid enough not to know how to handle it yourself. When you do that, you enable them to fill your head up with any story they care to concoct. And you have to believe it, because you don't have your own answers. It's called 'faith'. And it's holy, because you have to accept it without questioning, especially since you have no other choice. God forbid that you point out some inherent flaws in the story you're being told, or offer the anxiety that you have been misunderstood. It would just be construed as arrogance, or labelled as the very same stubbornness on your part because of which the problem persists.
Anyhoo, I wish I could talk. I wish stuff could be talked about, and not be so friggin ineffable all the time; it would really help clear my doubts and set things right for me and my mind. These doubts are eating my mind away. I want my mind back.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Grasp Your Power
The bow-legged charmer seems to be up to something fishy. You can't seem to understand why she would keep summoning you to her chambers only to insult and belittle you (the insulting and belittling were subtle, disguised as affectionate chiding. However, you felt her words were aimed at destabilising you). But enough about her. There's no need to stay in a room that's filling up with toxins.
In other news... your dad is another head case, isn't he? He seeks you out of your lair and cajoles you into revealing stuff about yourself you'd sworn to keep safely stowed away within yourself, and then he denies that it is all in any way true! Double-you-tea-eugh!? Who needs him any way? You feel he isn't even out to help you. We'll just thank him for the constant roof he provides our head and let him work out his own issues, won't we?
All you will ever need is yourself. You hit upon this exhilarating feeling and capture it, never to let it whine out of your grasp. As you keep it held firmly between your lovingly fastening fingers, you feel treasured, strengthened and invincible. You feel all your Powers come rushing back to your fold. "Oh lovin' Master, We never should of left your side. We'll be of good cheer fo'ever more," They, the Powers, blubber in, strangely, what is a Georgian accent. Why the accent? Maybe you'll find out to your pleasure later on..
In other news... your dad is another head case, isn't he? He seeks you out of your lair and cajoles you into revealing stuff about yourself you'd sworn to keep safely stowed away within yourself, and then he denies that it is all in any way true! Double-you-tea-eugh!? Who needs him any way? You feel he isn't even out to help you. We'll just thank him for the constant roof he provides our head and let him work out his own issues, won't we?
All you will ever need is yourself. You hit upon this exhilarating feeling and capture it, never to let it whine out of your grasp. As you keep it held firmly between your lovingly fastening fingers, you feel treasured, strengthened and invincible. You feel all your Powers come rushing back to your fold. "Oh lovin' Master, We never should of left your side. We'll be of good cheer fo'ever more," They, the Powers, blubber in, strangely, what is a Georgian accent. Why the accent? Maybe you'll find out to your pleasure later on.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
A rooted mind takes root
The urge towards the Buddha had taken root. You figured your mind was no good being awol, and needed to be summoned and harnessed for you to have any chance at a liberated life. So you awaken your body that your mind may be inspired in turn. But your mind was inebriated in a pall of drowsiness unbecoming of an aspiring activist. It reached out for the glowing point emblazoning the occula-natal intersection, but what could the point do but swim hazily in protest against your stupor.
You burst into a dry panic; lost hopes and dying causes were reprising themselves with pent-up fury. Later, in desolation you would sit, curled up into a farce of an embrace, trying to recall the forgotten sensation of the precious convalescent fluid which, possibly, you had spilt into naught via a lowlier duct. You vow to take better care of your vital fluids, so that they may feel you worthy and deserving of being immersed.
The bow-legged charmer was sighted at the station, trying to be ignored by your reclusive consciousness. She walked past, then sidled up to you. You essayed your poker face, you hoped, to some avail; but the nightly exuberance was but a shadow of itself in the blinding twilight. Your habitual dumbness came over you and you chided the charmer on the pretext of chiding yourself. Deathly references pointed hamfisted fingers upon smoky graves in a jaded flail for the taste of a kindred spirit. She would turn out to be a truer you than you, and you felt shunted out of yourself.
There's so much more, but isn't all this already simply precious?
You burst into a dry panic; lost hopes and dying causes were reprising themselves with pent-up fury. Later, in desolation you would sit, curled up into a farce of an embrace, trying to recall the forgotten sensation of the precious convalescent fluid which, possibly, you had spilt into naught via a lowlier duct. You vow to take better care of your vital fluids, so that they may feel you worthy and deserving of being immersed.
The bow-legged charmer was sighted at the station, trying to be ignored by your reclusive consciousness. She walked past, then sidled up to you. You essayed your poker face, you hoped, to some avail; but the nightly exuberance was but a shadow of itself in the blinding twilight. Your habitual dumbness came over you and you chided the charmer on the pretext of chiding yourself. Deathly references pointed hamfisted fingers upon smoky graves in a jaded flail for the taste of a kindred spirit. She would turn out to be a truer you than you, and you felt shunted out of yourself.
There's so much more, but isn't all this already simply precious?
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
A shored wail
Things are dying inside me
But I am still alive.
Every new morning
calls me to awaken
to its shallow depths.
Where is my ticker?
I can hear it flicker
in a puddle of weak injury.
It won't even bleed
its pain out.
It hoards pain,
it's a plain whore.
It's playing itself hoarse
So I complain to the hordes.
In throaty whispers
that carry my plane to the shores;
They keep me on course.
Get that pitiful slime off that face!
You're only getting fazed by a phase.
If only you won't drown now, you'll love water all your life;
You were meant to survive.
But I am still alive.
Every new morning
calls me to awaken
to its shallow depths.
Where is my ticker?
I can hear it flicker
in a puddle of weak injury.
It won't even bleed
its pain out.
It hoards pain,
it's a plain whore.
It's playing itself hoarse
So I complain to the hordes.
In throaty whispers
that carry my plane to the shores;
They keep me on course.
Get that pitiful slime off that face!
You're only getting fazed by a phase.
If only you won't drown now, you'll love water all your life;
You were meant to survive.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Bask, drenched in Blood
A Bleeding Heart, surrounded by Weighty Thoughts, felt ambushed. It felt like it needed to be as authoritative as its planetary cohabitants. For, mark, these Thoughts were shaped as it, the Heart, was. They appeared to possess the same winding arteries that criss-crossed its own schema. Rational the Bleeding Heart was, and it could not ignore the way the Thoughts progressed about their ways, for, to ignore what was in front of you was to ignore truth, as far as you knew it. What could the Heart do but Bleed?
"Was I born to Bleed?" whimpered the Heart.
By all functional edicts, a heart is, indeed, meant to bleed. But, in staunch uprising, it had now become rather mistrustful of the PuppetMaster, Who implied, by means too subtle not to pay heed to, that it, the Heart, was ordained to Bleed. The PuppetMaster told the Heart it was supposed to ignore the smooth, facile way in which the Thoughts fulfilled their tasks and whims. The Thoughts, the Heart was admonished, would always be, for the Heart, an edifice of discontent; that which it, the Heart, could never adhere to. That was the way it was, spake the PuppetMaster.
The Heart made up its mind. It would not be thus subjugated. It would be a Heart freed from the evolutionary imperative of Bleeding. It would be renegade, and a happier Heart it would be for it. Its blood would no longer be called upon as payment for its existence. It would serve its captors in other ways - through a mindful love and admiration. It would be easy to love them, after all. They would be worshiped for their ascendancy in a set of parameters it valued in a bodily organ; and in idolising its captors, it would set its own ideals upon a hallowed pedestal. And, with this promise, the Heart began to pump its blood for itself once more. And it had a Hearty laugh with every pulse.
"Was I born to Bleed?" whimpered the Heart.
By all functional edicts, a heart is, indeed, meant to bleed. But, in staunch uprising, it had now become rather mistrustful of the PuppetMaster, Who implied, by means too subtle not to pay heed to, that it, the Heart, was ordained to Bleed. The PuppetMaster told the Heart it was supposed to ignore the smooth, facile way in which the Thoughts fulfilled their tasks and whims. The Thoughts, the Heart was admonished, would always be, for the Heart, an edifice of discontent; that which it, the Heart, could never adhere to. That was the way it was, spake the PuppetMaster.
The Heart made up its mind. It would not be thus subjugated. It would be a Heart freed from the evolutionary imperative of Bleeding. It would be renegade, and a happier Heart it would be for it. Its blood would no longer be called upon as payment for its existence. It would serve its captors in other ways - through a mindful love and admiration. It would be easy to love them, after all. They would be worshiped for their ascendancy in a set of parameters it valued in a bodily organ; and in idolising its captors, it would set its own ideals upon a hallowed pedestal. And, with this promise, the Heart began to pump its blood for itself once more. And it had a Hearty laugh with every pulse.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
These people have always known their agendas. They are so "in the know" and so devoid of self-ignorance that they can manipulate. Me - on the other hand - not so much. For instance, I am just not given to manipulation or any form of forgery, because I dread the effect a lie would have on my already tattered view of reality; dread lest I make it harder for myself than it already is to successfully argue in favour of why 2 and 2 should make 4 - which, it seems, is too sinful a premise to expect to be true...
But Oh how cool it'd be if I found voice when the court was in session.
But Oh how cool it'd be if I found voice when the court was in session.
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