Life Perspectives · Psychological · song · Writing

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

Psychological · song

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



Allah Almighty · Life Perspectives · poetry · Psychological · Writing

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. ▬

Life Perspectives · Philosophy · poetry · Psychological · Writing

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?

Allah Almighty · Life Perspectives · poetry · Psychological · Spiritual · Surreal · Writing

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. ▬

Philosophy · poetry · Psychological · Writing

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. ▬

journal · non fiction · Psychological · Writing

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.