you lose

free on, from your genocide of lies
free on, from your genocide of lies

pretty crack of a smile
dispel your arson
you poisoned pal
you’re poisoned pal
like a latch upon my lamp
kerosene blotch of nightmare

spine fluke of neurosis
you’re better than a sore thumb
you bite with each wound
how thinking defies logic
how reality defies logic
my mind on adrenalin current

you broken butterfly son of a bitch
there’s only me now and I

I’m happy to see you bug eyed surprised
you thought I was tease hell you a freak
sadistic ; me flextastic

getting on an environment of air is fine with me
you stay with your poppy rouge face
in your deal to drown on land

 I am volcanic nebula
I am supernovae gestation

I still am I

Mrs Dalloway

There is nothing I wouldn’t want
I am not lacking of anything
I am not perfect, but I am beautiful
I am not being self-centered
I am just saying that even if I am not pretty
I can try to be pretty interesting
and that matters to me and some people

Sometimes I wonder about all my broken loves
small loves, intense loves, touching loves and imagined loves,
and I realized my loves had a big, heart appetite
and too many tune out the large —- thin is in
so is skin but I rather eat poached eggs with bread
would you like some too?
It’s not that healthy to a person who is a calorie counter I guess
but I respect calorie counters unless they anorexic
I wish I could sometimes sing like the crowd
things seem to be easier
but like any passionier I remind myself
that life too easy is love like runny eggs

Sometimes I think about my old friends
some close, some lost, some far
some started to love me more, some started to hate me more
maybe I deserve them both — I don’t want enemies
I can say now that I am a broken car
but broken cars go downhill  faster and uphill funnier
I am not too dangerous; I am like a spider laying eggs and nets
spiders are creepy at times but I find them nice

Sometimes I think about broken dreams
like scratches or holes in the wall
and ruins of an old age gone that I visit with odd hours
not kept by soldier clocks on duty but people clocks non conformed
and then I realize that this deluge of broken pieces make me unique
idiosyncratic, postmodernistic, Oh God an original phfantastic!
It hurts to see idyllics peel over but our freckles are great!
they know they are the reefs of a lovely ocean of me

But life mundane I kiss you so
Life excitement I know you are here
inside corners; playing hide and seek

Waiting for an embrace of love
I wish I was more to be loved

I don’t mean sex you know and I’m not being “gay” or it’s not a female thing
I want to offer love
but not like flimsy kissing booths
it can’t be sold in a shop
and there is no definite wares
that’s why I think it hurts, smiles, feels and lives

 

 

sadness repertoire [a]

am wounded
am crying
am wounded
am losing sanity
am feeling like negative zero

am committing mistakes
that break my heart
what am I gonna do?
Oh God, why is caring so stubborn?

wishing I was indifferent like many people I see.▬

▬ . seriously, am I really that ugly that I am cataracted?
wedge between sadness —- I am feeling sad too if you are too
if there is love between us, Agape or Eros
don’t you think we share the burden of pain?
like the dew and the nectar?
am I that ugly that is it to be trusted
that I don’t share your pain

I hope not. ▬

sometimes, along these lines —-

perhaps tonight you spit your spite, I am demon in disguise or an angel whose wings are cannibalized?
am I the criminal or the crime?
it’s always a misunderstood vagrancy; a heart nonstop delinquent becoming mass murderer
but before I tasted the  blood; made the original kill, in Cain’s footsteps — before God sends the crows
I thought I never hurt anyone…I never thought I would viciously hurt unsurmised without an initiation
without an invitation — when you cry I could not see to console and make maps of our wrongdoings
to placate the bruises that we gave each other in a twisted game of both cats and mouses
trying to protect what we thought was the best; easier spoken than broken or executed; crying together.

access to continents on some lymph nodes on electric high; sometimes the nerve relapses
am I executioner or executed?
will the storm see the nest of peaceful clouds or just remain in the tundra grey of indecision?
questions; non-filtered questions and the confusion tangled longer the rapunzel syndrome
should I just say you and I or am I errant in this dialogue from far away speakers and type text
maybe, fully crowned in the dunce cap, I thought you would swallow the bile in a smile
rev up the attack, I did not mean to see you distressed; maybe I undervalued the stress and tone
of my words; flagillated the  vocal whip made you slip, spilled milk, deterioration of the bumped shine

perhaps it’s done with to say you are wrong; your maternal is wrong but that don’t fix the ranks
am I pursuant or pursued?
I am not the automatic sadist living on the cracked skin of blistered eyes and braille bluish ties
do not enjoy the jabbed jaw, the condescension, the insults, the ultimata and the crushed scent of madness
I am not the automatic masochist pining away the flogging and the logging of tongue nine o’ tails and wretched slang
I am both child and adult; in twenties still if I were a Hobbit I would be enshrined to adolescence or adultescence
maturity is spectrum; wave and particles I mistaken my physics gave a physical demonstration of angry tantrum
got ruined by my own test, progression and now living with sowing the potols in a form of requemistic palace

maybe there’s no entire apology but there is a sincere one because hurting with such intensity is not me-normally
am I ridiculous or ridiculed?
sometimes it’s harder to comprehend the matter that bays the brocade and harder still to swallow feelings
then the poison maternal arrow hit hard and first annoyed then sadness; my phone soaked my bruises
tears can run both ways like a highway; tributaries to digital polyphony — both chaste and mutilated
am I depressant or depressed?
am I loser or lost?
am I fluke or fluked?

was I ever understood or understood differently
counting my mistakes like sheep to slaughter en masse for no reason of eating
feeling raw even though I had a thick skin
feeling raw even though I’m wearing my skin

am I sad or am I sad?

moon pages

yesternight I saw the moon
full and large; petit and petite
yet not crowned with its platinum jewels
it wore a rustic set as those of a village babe
freckled upon its body ash and black
like a raven molted and molten cauldron flesh
of a copper gold that elucidated the plains
it looked like a page of old
with half shaded by cloud and phase methinks
a book with corner torn still retains content beautiful

there night is writ and moon just space non-inked
a continent of modern ruins amongst the sea of information
a light for the dimension; zygote alphabet how odd are you
half-full in your publication of admiration and birth
for without the abyss one knows not overwhelmed
how can the night appear more like a knight of sheen
without a rustic yellow moon tickling the dark and light
bursts of wonder magnetized by such a small blot like a seal
to a billet-doux to a planet enriched in the lore and yolk. ▬

playing with words

chasms of gasms gaping galloping and fritzy ferocious
precious pious haughty got me and jocky mocky
jabberwocky alice chalice in mathematical astronomical phantasmagoria
meena you get a spine on a skin; wonder woman of dusky-dawn amarante
loving words and figures yet academically unsound tuning the brain and heart
might help but they’re like diffiicult radio-fi’s
like scattered marbles on a mosaic scale
homogeneously ingeniously camouflaged in heterozone
as Foucault says heterotopia and Bhaba says ambivalence
Foucault of another name said the pendulum rides on
the pendulum myogenic is not bored
for its arteries are a bermuda constant
linking these unchained chains
is like a nautaghor or a asholghaur
in a prized love of the heart. ▬

ink argosy 3

 

Blame. Game. It’s actually quite crooked you know. Being blamed for things. I think people who mostly blame others for even the simplest issues are upset about something else and blaming someone is the quickest way to dis-acknowledge your own sorrows and transfer them into some other thing. It’s like an urn or a vase secretly containing ashes or dirt and just the outer solidity, intricacy and the stability of the container soothes us that are secrets are not contacted or contracted —- because secrets are harder to cover than venereal diseases. Wanna teach the basic three states of matter; pour some water on a vase and switch on some fan to disrupt the water surface tension; that way the kids learn set theorem basic functionality, paradox, interconnections and logic-unlogic of the psychological and natural world. It also illustrates a dimensional grid for computer programmers and artists and physics students  — but sorry for the digression; blame is something that at times digresses too.  Digresses from the main crux and reasonability of the situation. Praxis of blame is usually, in my experience, frustration and sadness. Also, a keen, nagging fear. Fear is many a times non-standard; that is why people oft opt not to talk about it. Like the sixth sense (minus sense think along the lines, metaphorically, X-Files sixth extinction or something) movie no one wants to confront ghosts or clearly confront the act of understand the tragedy of ghosts. Finally, the poor man does go mad not from the act of seeing but from the act of living with a world systematized to not care or empathize. To no believe in anything other than profit — the word profit is now being used in some secular perversion of the religiosity that we hate. Thus how do we profit from ignorance? We are complacent and loving to gain grades — in school we anatomize people’s accomplishments by being grade schoolers or class schoolers or at times elevate them based on that institute of performance. Nowadays a prodigy fits that calling — if she/he excels in a age group thing we are happy but truth is genius cannot easily abstract itself to such detailing. Blame excludes details it just is an onlooker, at times, of stats porn. Of the range we think ought to be someone’s ability and we like to keep them there. Mobility is liked when it devolves or is in stasis any patterns of checkered prints or fluctuation like a bird in humming flight is to be eradicated. Nagging blame does not like any true reason or passion; it is just a merchant of alms and not a artiste of clouds and soil.

An essay on trying to understand human interactions —-

I’ll ache with you
if you ache with me —
sans the genitalia throbbing

not a mere saying to soothe the shallow
I want something both deep and mechanical
your heart intent not reflex

and if it is your sex
let’s see I want the desire unfettered from doubt
lettered by sensuous not cannibalism
not a “hentai” blur of rape and rape and perverse rape
rapes that dehumanize for the prick can’t get it right
needs a necrophile ejaculation to satisfy some Id training unresolved
some something that escapes the mind and is just jizz vomit
(you might wanna vomit if you think about)
your clit, penis, balls and vagina need long caresses and sharp ones
you should say this is fun and non-derogative
derivative of higher senses, higher volumes, lower fantasies
and not just stimulus manipulated

your heart should be a tabula of fabula
I am not engineering some Mills and Boon parody of romanticks
I am saying hey let’s be good about this
we don’t need the candles and the meal and the beach and the what nots
clean l;laundry even normal powder on skin and average cream is fine|
let’s trail ourselves in languages and dictum; let’s piece of anecdotes
sample here and there; full essays and some calculus along the way
with algebraic configurations
chemistry is in the face mostly
for how long can you stare at breasts succulent of both XX and XY
or even X? and go wow those are nice
but even a blind knows the temperature and freckles of feelings
lodged here and there is going to really work
better burning than a scented candle cliche

click click goes the nails
tick tick goes a brain and a medula
you know its not only a trinity thing
that’s a wrong
your brain, heart and sex
well they can be core points in some grammar
but its your body dear
chasing in a physio-chemical biology
that goes concurrent with gravity
and underneath it
over it
between the lines
like a scanner or even more
that’s the throb
its just we feel three things at a time I guess
like star gazing; spotting tips or buffs of constellations but not the wholes

well, a good conversation is a whole affair; theses and geneses and stuff
but what I don’t like is mainstream fiction (yeah you too porn)
which alienates so much like a gig lamp thing
or scatters like a flush of spilled or broken
suspending realism is one thing
negating is another
does your creativity lack on such a poorness that assumes such
misogyny, misandry, misanthropy en general
that you think people only think in waists?
people can think even via skin pores
Oh God, God made that the beauty
think on an orgasm or a drink of hot coco
is it the only yeah coming or mouth on hotness?

I want empathy you get that
that’s really hot when its not bad pretend
Hey even when you played dolls with others
not your own sex or cars
did you not see yourself married, en actual?
or driving nicely?
kids don’t usually rely on perversions
adults do
because they are scared that playing it fair and nice
more work less beer or smokes

so exchanged the human for a good old tobacco enema
guess what you ain’t really that happy

you hoping someone gets second hand smoking and complains
so even in an argument you bond

You want ether in a reality
not a latent whore escapist the erodes you

light a match in a dark room
rather keep it lit to see others
or light a smoke
and do a lung-burn in the dark? .  ▬

ink argosy 2

 

When did it happen that we were so satisfied with war? I guess war has always been a mostly personal issue but when the person becomes or acts counter personal it is then that we call for some interventions. Obviously, many people use intervention as an instrument to cause more violence or hazard. Why? The nature of the bully vivisected seems too much of a generalization. Many bullies fear, have inferior complexes and thus try to “nurture” away these discrepancies with type of sadomasochism. How? Simply because the bully applauds insults and hurt and craves to do more damage. No, a warrior loves the heat of battle for purposes that are not only sensory but a chance to meet kindreds and equals or equivalents she or he does not cough of blood with an erection for more slaughter mindlessly in fact she or he has codes of conduct. That is why the gladiator arena is much different than a fight because the gladiator is a prostitute of blood and action and can only finance himself/ herself through sensualizing murder and anchoring the most hated or spectacular killing techniques.  It’s a bad form of burlesque really for in burlesque the flesh is made to stand out with concentrated colours as though it were a surreal jungle of not merely enticement but an art from God. The burlesque of the gladiator is non-choice, non-concentrated for contrast it is just a abyss; a bowl of blood. Think how Ed Gein made soup bowls out of human skulls — that is I feel an appropriate symbolism for gladiator rings. Just perverse.

And — nowadays, the whole world is that soup bowl gladiator crater of blood. It is ample madness and all the news channels are just extensions of the viewing arenas and balconies. Sometimes an opera singer comes quietly to chirp in a little bit away from the chaos, that’d be a mainstream news reporter, trying to pitch in good notes and exclude bad notes while the maestro operates the scales. Only do some journalists sing better forms of this opera with innovative scales but they are rarely heard. They do not dress up like an amateur Moulin Rouge they just come in like the Scream painting and try to tell you things but their frames get muted by gaudy adverts of pinching bums and pretty body parts. We are so used to cannibalizing others in entertainment that we treat blown body parts as pictoids rather than reality. The fictional Hannibal Lecter is actually mostly attuned to our natural state of the world — hating him would be hating this cultural war frenzy which we dress up as rights, self-defense and even empowerment; Hannibal is Wendigo dressed in a suit rather than hunting out in the woods. Dressing up war in a gourmet armour does not mitigate the meat of it.

War is some wicked carnivale where the clowns eat the guests, the mirrors explode, the strong man hurts you and the manager comes to you and whispers, “Your life or your life.”  and if you scream like the hollow painting in horridness the manager smiles and states, “We need money for our show.” All the  material riches of the world cannot bring back the world. After all, in the end a gladiator ring is a makeshift cemetery and if we are content with wars of today we are content with the idea of being in a living cemetary.

Ink argosy 1

 

Unconventionally oriented. I would use those words to describe myself. Even my intellect or what can be called as intelligence does not belong to the intelligentsia that is celebrated. I am no ordinary Muslim but I am an ordinary Muslim. How can that be a “paradox” — I lipmarked because I did not want to italicize nor did I want to lipmark because paradox is not always a general evil to me so I am using it connotavely . In me I have this complex that not all contradictions are generally bad too because some people can move forward in the state of extreme controversial but cannot brave a fundamental which keep it more suspended in a sort of spiritual arthritis; a bad understanding of Foucault’s  pendulum. I was wondering how a Martian landscape can hold a pendulum or how Venus would with its volcano laden landscape.

When I think f Civil Disobedience or Walden I think of two things; how is this working out? How is it not working out? We all have our Waldens and our range of Civil Disobediences. Feminism initially had started out as one but nowadays is treated like a fad and ironically patriarchy is a bit of a fad too. Blaming everything on the destructive nature of XY is non-resolve to me because many men hate doing that. This why creation and destruction are difficult topics because the act of both genesis and exodus is considered more or less subjective. Democracy demarcates in a way it shouldn’t have; materialism has augmented it into a monarchy of the material majority. We are content with our discontentment that is why we do not like long term commitments for sometimes they are seemingly the actualization of a satisfaction so we think as they might bring us a form of happiness let us exclude it.  That is why we love the Stock Market because it has knighted discontentment.

Ironically, we outwardly hate so called random things —- a boy who I wanted to like and be friends with decided to reject me on the basis of my randomness. I had, in his opinion, randomly offered him my telephone number without striking an actual conversation. I was thinking we talked more than  once and twice and known each other for over two months thus maybe my actions were unconventional to you or what I guess to be a gendered conscience/consciousness of women but random I care to disagree. Like the sports athlete who disappoints and the Stock market which fails to be a turbulent array of messes I had been a neat chaos in that world of tic-tact-to hegemonic of contracted social contact which at times is more dangerous than STD. So like a blimp I just went away. Though to say I was not hurt would be a lie. I was but hurt is human and I must deal with it.

We soothe our discontent by piling it up in drawers and in labels. If you think on it Porn is a great icon for discontentment and so is, to some measures, BDSM. When Sade and Masoch were doing their things they were frustrated. Sade became a pervert of frustration because I think defilement was the only way he could get a blackout. Masoch though making a ledger book of sexual feelings might wane his frustrations. I think neither succeeds because they are escapists and do not want to indulge in the orgy of the real. Real life is bizarre think about 180° and 90° angles and think of obtuse angles of 35° and 45° — the world contains all these in over 4th dimensional figures and no seemingly polarity of a rubix cube — Now that’s interesting.

You know what else is intersting; Matrices because if you copy flatland like witty but dry humour than they look like matchmaking sites. But if you think of gardening they look like incomplete seeds waiting to flower. Prime numbers are not enigmatic but original not because they are segregated but they integrate a philosophy that even numbers can be satisfied with themselves and still be numbers and may not need to follow an increment chain of spasms.  Same with basic algebraic formulae they are usually lettered methinks because they like mixing the beauty of the concrete with the abstract. The sphinx is beautiful but deadly because it empowers discontent and can only be killed by satisfaction; I wonder if the sphinx is a parody of a pedagogue or a scholar who is never autodidact. And the Delphian Oracle may be a parody of a pseudo-philosopher.

Either way I am scribbling away my madnesses — only I am not a Zebra think of me as an ant or a whale or something…along…some things… I hope my ink and pen didn’t hurt you much —