Quzzical. Questioning. Eccentric. Evolving.
in a few moments light will come out in a kaleidoscopic explosion
but light now is dawn-blue; like ink in water it deepens then lightens
the trees are in a budding phase of black and green
a new environ for black and white appears with what feels like another sleep-over.▬
at times I wish I could taste slivers from the night
it’s puffy cotton-candy blackcurrent-midnight flavoured structure
and in the cloudscape that are monotonous only to an unobservant eye
with pitchers full of lungs-elastic as the monsoon-like air cradles
and the heat sways in a rhythm of a long-due sleepy occupant
and my mind sans pressure loves the open window of the world God created.▬
there are freudian slips and there are freudian nips and the unusual castration of someone’s virility. There was a need to write “scheme” instead of “seem” and it got me in the crosshairs with the boss who
was angered that I defied the motion to be a liar. There was an unconscious hip sway that made the other think of skinvitation and that made “turned on” loose. However, that was a typo. Oops, you need to go
now before you make the situation worse. It happens that instead of telling the teacher the answer you told your friend; you cheated. You pushed your teacher; you got temporary detention.
And there is that time your showlaces tripped you or that buddy of yours snitched on you in accident. And the time you were conned and the time you burnt toast. There are other times you forgot and the [sic] of it made you annoyed. Like the name of someone close to you. Or, the jobs that you were to do. You forget an exam. You plagiarized.
That awkward time you were caught making gestures in codes. The time you actually swore when it was really inappropriate. And the time you were meant to buy some supplies but fell asleep and a jolt that brought you out running.
there are sometimes other fragments to be considered; on a scale of 20 is 10 good enough?
I hate looking at my weight knowing I’m outnumbered by the calories in a clear Western showdown or epic engagement
but there are other numbers; on the scale of 20 can you get a 21?
To be rated has its miseries and benefits like when you marry for money and realize that she talks too much about crap you care not for
because to you all the cutlery in the house looks fine and you don’t need a new set; he wants his resort vacation you prefer hiking which makes him cringe
like some talented mythbuster you tell me that I make good love; I know you were not enjoying it; you scaled it as a so-so
don’t worry I was not very interested probably because the medication interfered and so did my other interests
watching a film only disturbs us because we seem satiated by simulacra; I want to punch you for the pity sex
I want to tell you that I am serious but when we do “it” the serious becomes a half-commitment
I don’t wanna pester you but can we breakup?
it’s not good enough to simply stay away but it’s ok because I know the some person is rating me on biases
in an interview I get too nervous that I can hardly speak my vernacular and this means wannabe?
look I probably speak a second language better but look at me, my life, then you’ll — ok, I don’t get the job.
I probably should becomes a traveler but then I’ll be called exotic
my heart is a wet pulp of aesthetical precision. God does this well. But I have an ache not biological; it’s the ache if something shattered.
I think it’s my feeling of incompetence coming up.
So, prodded and pulled like a slab of meat in a butcher’s market I see that no one would buy me until I become scale-pro.
there are many metonymies to a person I guess. The lightbulb reminds you of their ideas or the faucet their nature to be so quiet yet also so intense. My heart panics when I realize I feel boring. No one seems to want to know me. It’s hard. It’s tearful. But I’ll hope onwards.
whisking away the night produces empathy; it’s skin rich and gleaning with milk light
the 3.40 moon with droopy eyelid and veinlets of grey makes the sky appear lighted and naked of it
the sinewy little-old trees in heights close to tall houses whimper in nervous excitement; the wind touches them too expertly
some crows hum into a medley concerned with their own nocturnal discussions. I am half-interloper, half-citizen — I am of the omnivorous diet and disciplines.
Night is a fair young beauty; his complexities make him a good conversationalist. Though he seems less robust his subtlety is his key talent. Night metamorphosizes in a plate of monochromes and diversities.
If colour is invisible it may be underexposure. Each eye-ranges in different scopes. There are perfectionists and then there are mediators. The latter group may thrive more however it is binary of context not ideas.
and I am bathed in a black water and white foam and their mixture is so beautiful than I think each beat of the heart is fashioned into a flute like chamber. I can play a music to understand the night it seems
the shadows and the quiet, the noises and the shapes make me feel the sweet sway of a world clouded in morning that is but a new day and not a new day. The dawn kisses the dusk and become some fertilized cell.
tastes of chill and heart
I retire after the Azhan dews into the core of the ever waking universe.▬
sometimes it’s harder to understand the finer lines between wrath and jealousy
unprecedented is the passcode to enter the possibility — God shows us what we never think off
as I look around
as I apologize for my crimes to the egotistical humans
I ponder why there is no quid pro quo
the criminal gets away; places changed
musical chairs crashing like a domino factory
the individual/collective versus the individual/collective
if I wronged did you spew your venomous retribution like a silky ghost?
was it just? Was it necessary to bring out your thoughts in ways that erupted in insatiably-destructive?
If I wronged you; you wronged me too
but when you smile I see you want to win
with that attitude you can never win the war.▬
highlighted are the networks, neurons neurotic graphed with MRI readiness because the tools were there and the tickmarks were checked, couchez: licensed to analyze; orgiastic gears and then the rattling the iron perfume of the things that are just there
I guess no one wants to ask, even in a whisper “What happened?” for they do other topics become too hard for indolence and ignorance to conquer.▬
we harbour the censorious, the truthful — most of us in guerilla gear and stilettos
in paper we plot, most of us; inking the tattoes of names that mean nothing
in swords we swallow, many of us; damaging the mechaniques of randomness and symmetry
with the guns that master lead and cell division we advertise radioactive canopies
death dies from meaning| life lives with carrion. ▬
my wounds control with an essence strategically bombarded with feather steps
I do not know them! Oh God let me know them! Their presentations remind me of necrophilia-contortions; not wisdom-love yet masquerade rapists
keen to supply; deaf to the demands
they are venom that ooze with the nectars; a deception that counters are not known to me
I guess the talent of evil is that it is pure in its impurities. ▬
