can’t assort these programs in folders; illusional diametric void
got to place myself in arrows and theme encoded noise
pretty as experimental; not sure sentimental
hardcore loving must be detrimental
read the ingredients; expiration; asphyxiation

caught up in wires and silk
my mouth is a hard drive injected software all the time
ejaculation mythos and the ethos of destruction
arrange me in parts
in the end you’ll think I am the perfect machine

hetereozygote and homoerotic don’t publish me
but I am just symmetry
fused pressure alternative tech caught in mainstream gigascreamer

wretched youth of flash driving and my soul connected to floppy enhancing
and you tell me I’m slow, I’m primitive neanderthal like that means you only
like it when I sex it up, like it when I act really lusty but when I am ordinary
you put me on stand by and live me plugged while you unplugged wild

mechanized categories don’t fulfill me as  a definition
but you say hey what use are tics and phobias
the melancholia of a by gone era when analog hand holding
made sense for a while like nibbling fingers and kissing the tips
you only want to see a tip on the fold wow I guess you are techno-advanced
and I am a machine living on a low frequency diet

caught in these wires, caught in these wires
never fragmented for a voice; only I am activated for a vice.▬

can you wait for me…?


these hands…break me…make up…lots of things….
fibing stones…overtuned bones…like insects of a pedigree

shouting from out the elastic flesh, weak to the emotional distress
burn out…eyes struck…tongue hot…cold face…
stern as a mosquito on a mission and I hurt ceaselessly

can you patch me up?
can you wait for me?
can you hold me?
can you just accept me for now?

I hurt, you hurt, we’ve been through some stuff that we can’t get through
TV screens archaic breaking up the lenses, LED is poor company when you are crying

blush me, blush me, blush me,
hurting me to the bone and marrow
hurting you to the bone and marrow
am I soup for your seething soul or are you mine to adorn with cold?

can’t you ever wait for me?

we ran marathons up  a lane of Jack and Jill territory
but I broke my crown and you ran after me not to heal it
is friendship meant to be collective pain?
wanting my crown fixed, a humpty dumpty catacomb?
no honey runs to rot! no honey runs to rot!

can you wait for me?!
why am I repeating myself?!
this is supposed to know you
this is supposed to know you
this is supposed to know you
this is  supposed to know you
this is supposed to know you
this is supposed to know you

burning in cold, teasing with fire fans

everything matters if it matters to you

I want to matter
can you wait for me…won’t you…


I have learned the hard way that people do abuse you. In many ways that have socially and culturally and even familially been taught to us.  When I think of people abandoning me I think of this mostly. Yes, I did faults and I had hurt them but not on a prolonged account. Nor did it ever get so out of hand. They can have their catharses and tell I am a villain when they continually put me down. And when I challenge them they use tears, accusations, threats, curses and abandonment as their answer. I have never done these. If I cried I said my reasons. If I accused anyone I tried my best to think fairly and I barely pick up and point the finger. I hardly point fingers. I am not a saint nor saviour I know I am a incorrigible sinner. Or as secular society would label me a criminal. I never said I wasn’t. I commit crimes and I accept their full responsibility. Thus it hurts when others commit the same crimes with me that they are forgiven because of stupid cultural beliefs. Some tell me I am being too sensitive when clearly I am not and then they mock my sensitivities or emotions or whatever they want to label it and think it’s so funny. If I do that to them they tell me they won’t talk to me anymore. And even if I apologize after I or ironically they commit an offense I am still not worthy of forgiveness. I am still bad. Really bad. But these people easily replace me too. With other good friends. I wondered if they had them in stock or something because clearly my apologies or even my attempts to redeem myself is never taken into consideration.  I can cry. But my tears don’t matter. My heart can crash and break badly. But it’s a 5th world country my heart while they are on 1st class A grade status and I can’t surely complete with that.  It’s easy to blame others. I try not to. I try to blame myself. But others don’t do this especially when it concerns me. Yes, I did try to think if it was me, just me and these people have duped me for a long time making me think it was me. And it hurt. It was for a long time. Count years. Months. Minutes. Seconds of excruciating self-hate, tears and a desire to live without living. Yeah, some pushed me there but I realized it wasn’t always me. Some people do not care to examine themselves at all — lol, et al. And then they kick and pinch whatever they find closest. And yes sometimes I have done really BAD THINGS and spewed vitriolic as they said. But guess what I tried to curtail the damage, give a reason maybe not a good one for my actions. I wish they would hear me out. If I hurt someone badly I will try to make it right. Once I made my Aunt, precious Aunt, who stays a lot with me, CRY BADLY. I was being mean to her even as she was crying. But then I realized what a fuck I was being. I really felt HORRIBLE. At what a fuck I was being and I tried my BEST to make it RIGHT. Well, it was mostly my mom who made her cry but that was not the point I contributed to her misery by being a FUCK and I tried to DO by her the good thing. She was KIND enough to listen to me and forgive me and I will try NEVER forget that. But here’s the deal. Many people don’t listen at all. My Aunt valued our friendship too. If she wanted she could have given excuses and understandable ones not to mix with me anymore but she did not do that. And there are people who don’t listen. Who kick you out of their lives and when you go after them they find it okay to just ignore you until you don’t exist anymore. To me that is a pinnacle of cruelty. Guess what I do exist and your ignoring me won’t change that like me wishing the rain will just disappear or the tide will ebb away now won’t work out and I just am pissed at people getting away with abject cruelty.

It’s  not fair to anyone.

7 stories to read this weekend

Good reading list. Something to sit down and relax and read about though the Anorexia story and Taliban story were just overdone 😀


For some odd reason, I have not been able to add a diverse enough reading materials to the mix this week and as a result, there is an unusually large number of tech-centric stories on my recommendation list. Here are the picks for this weekend.

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New Themes: Photolia, Flounder, Vision, Bexley, and Bromley

I think i love Flounder a lot 😀 one of the best free themes ever 😀

The Blog

This week we have a roundup of no less than five new themes now available on Happy holidays!


Photolia by UpThemesPhotolia by UpThemes is a responsive, single-column theme perfect for organizing photos, galleries, videos, and much more. The header area supports a widescreen custom header image and offers three default images, set to display randomly as visitors peruse your website. Use your own custom background image to really make Photolia fit your style.


FlounderDesigned by Mel Choyce and Kelly Dwan, Flounder is a flat-design, minimally styled theme for bloggers which features colorful support for post formats and a clean, responsive layout. Flounder is also is designed to work seamlessly with many popular features such as Infinite Scroll and enhanced gallery support.


Vision by Pro Theme DesignVision, the newest by Pro Theme Design, is a theme designed for artists, photographers and other people with a love of strong visuals…

View original post 213 more words

She, house

Italo Calvino said: The more enlightened our houses are, the more their walls ooze ghosts. Describe the ghosts that live in this house:

Image credit: “love Don’t live here anymore…” – © 2009 Robb North – made available under Attribution 2.0 Generic

“So I have taken up a challenge to describe ghosts;
well let me tell you a bit of history that concerns me
  ghosts are not always a species and yes they 
  dio not manifest as poltergeist but are poltergeists like
 aneurysm are or lerts be milder and state they are fireflies 
 exploding and regrowing like phoenix embers
From the left side of this house pic I see a woman
Probably the shadow tones inspire tomes of long hair
But it’s easier to see women ghosts than male ones
that says something about many cultures
ghost the lingering violent types are usually women
while the noisy and petulant types are usually male –>
–> preferably adolescent looking as the ID and Super Ego 
 probably needs a sense back to  “accepted realities”  and that sir or madam
 or “.” is quite a sad affair on its own

Well, let’s get back to the main story and it’s this. This lady here or I am calling her that
is showing me her glaring profile because I wandered and trespassed into something
bad and that is her own kind of bad and she doesn’t like me eavesdropping or do anything
because droppings are bad scenery ain’t it?

I suppose that place was the kitchen but she is standing like a surgeon with instruments out
not a cool in delicate harmony with the craft; obviously she despises the kitchen, the art of cooking and the wooden sweetness of plates and the porcelain afterwares is not hers to adorn and I think the only reason she is standing here because most people knew her here and she just wants to mock them. 

So, there is a message that needs deconstruction but maybe there is no academic frivolity (actually I like deconstruction a lot but I know some people shoot ants with it when it need not be)
and so there is just the smoothness of the dark shadowy hands, no knife, no maniac mythologies of hysteria.

I get it you destroyed the house and were proud to do so
Not because you hated its nice design, (though I don’t think its Victorian and I am dunce of these quaint (like not small as potatoes small but like novelty small) types of architecture please don’t hate me for my ignorance) but it’s country pleasantry
made you feel like throwing it off the sky if you could and it’s not the house but how the house works with a crisp dawn to say “hi” to you hollowly and the burnt embers of a day with an injective authority of a night always ringing to try to tell you what to do. And though the house is small it’s lards large and greediness cannibalized by the torture of you where each failure or triumph goes through as the same. Rape, rape, rape. And they do so because such punishing order and sex and sex and order and beating and what not is considered what can bev done only to women but ironically you have proven them so horribly wrong. Snapped in two that arcane madness by becoming hysteria of a myth for a while and it was damn ugly but damn pretty because it was you post breaking point egg crack when only the poach was on and no yolk was out.

Now the door is annexed like a threshold like with slim logs
as if someone has to jump over into this madness because
it seems to you that only tragedy like that has to be jumped into
and you want no other way and will rather want it this way

But you are not dead

Far from it

Well, your life here is dead and that is what the mockings smiling unworking ghost 
is showing and that is what sums off the place; it is usually the slave not the tyrant who shows the honesty of a life, a place –> a life in a place. but guess what  you are not a slave nor a tyrant anymore you are just you

And so I see you smiling mocking in a kitchen that is not you holding nothing
showing me that you are strength; and glimmer in and out showing me, telling me

“I am alive now.””

rags to riches


we are bored of poverty, handsome though we struggle hard, soft against the ashen and the grime — our crime becomes that we fashion the rags to riches rhyme! Oh please, a beggar on a street may or not as what he seems but most beggars are not symbologies waiting for their carcass scanned but here we do the the gallery view and be satiated at defiling the masses

rags to riches only work when you blow the cunt or cock or all for 2 cents a pop and then get pushed and moved around like some bad tasting of 5 start food. Here we become happy being the fat of the rich cat so we take the blows for them as proxy to their crimes.

Don’t tell about rags and riches; don’t tell I am dumb while I have been selling flowers since 4 now I am 10 but the man who molests me still eager to touch me and yes I am a man thus my tongue stays quiet but everyone knows what’s going on as I stare at women or men in their moving houses ( a car is so nice need not be an RV) and try to get them to buy flowers. Always discontent about the way they behave but always holding my tongue.

You glossy immortals are but celluloid crowned and soon you wax will wither and the tether to your bough will crackle with brimstone from you own asphalt scales and you will consumed and phoenix-born to us and soon you will know that the rags are there to wash and keep the clean of the riches and no  Cinderella transformations happen much for even Cinderella came back from the party and went back to rags so her riches were still dependent but we will not be contented by a 1 percent foul play that poisons the broth of the brood.▬

your x and y tragedies —

if it were easy to carve a graph line out of tragedies
than the act may have been accomplished before
statistics are not always tragedies; they are petulant yet precocious numbers — they are children thus they have honesty and apply in their lines and even on a whole yet they are still children who can exclude one thing or the other..

…But one thing about honest children is that they do not lie about pain…and they do not always compare pain. To them each pain and loving is special regardless of quantity or quality. It is the perfect adults who nauseate discussions by comparisons by saying “My scar is bigger than yours.” and even if they do its usually fun unless they have become measured by measurables from the start and then you see them making it a habit like sling shot practice to hurt people on a whim without logic.

I live in a world where people always measure their own bruises. They like make typography out of it so you can do a graphology degree on it. They will draw shapes out of it and make it nice cubbism material and/or trigonometric math for you  to solve.  And in some Modernistic flare they will give it very noble sufferring qualities.

Yet, that will never happen for your pain….

Oh no they will make sure your pain is a lesser one. If I say I had chicken pox and they are broke they will go with their broke story better pain than yours story. Even if the person is high fly rich with gold showered in buckets that gold will not make the poxessed fell less of a horridly sick person; helpless and fragile…

Wait…is not being financially collapse also similar to helpless and fragile…? Thus should our pain not have a conclave and should not it bring us together for God is watching down and evolution was around the corner feeding pigeons who he still calls ratgles…?

Yet the graph blot ,trainwreck of a little boxed heart waiting for the axis of brevity politics decides this: my pain is mightier and holier than thou…I am sadder than thou…pristine sadder than though and cleanly miserable not miserly as your pox or your flu that is only blue as blue balls go…no, your pain and mine cannot drink from the same cup, cannot ride together, I will burn your pain’s books and diaries in a bonfire, I will segregate you from my pain so we need not even share swimming pools. While I put the caste shoes on know that I will drone on you and I know your WMDs are insincerity and pox-ridden while my destitution is not a larger danger no sirree and Madam you be sure to stop being selfish you hear nor else we gonna war it up!

So the graph was charted I found it the perfect slope and y=mx is really working out but I think even they didn’t want this; I look at snow falls and rain drops and grey fog clouds and wonder amongst their trait secrets and shapes almost infinite do they argue on shape sizes and measurables?

If that happened we would probably experience on Ice Ages and Deluges. ▬

mascara nights…


sometimes the beauty in dusk and pitch dawn is projected in more than atmosphere; heavy set kisses defying heavy set curfews and the chance to be disobediently liberal only the aftermath may be no more kisses and direct sex is clumsy and concoctional and the guy getting happy from it is at times just urban legend it’s just hierarchy in nail polish kingdom with ear piercing and tongue piercing as capital. Our soft subtle romances have been excluded by top dogs too no more husky nets and rendezvous no more kisses in crumbs  and palm leaves and rose buds and virgin skins first rite of passage; oh forget marriage I am not sympathizing that.  Marriage to some now is another business deal they just gotta dip their genital ink pot to signature it with — talking of the bashful love of holding hands and unloud tongued kisses and preferably good intentions involved with the erection and wetness. Not an orgy of the cosmopolitan fakeness not tube red stilettoed awfulness coupled with men fully dressed as though they only get to be respected.  When did I get snubbed and snuck into mascara nights…long drawn lashes of fake sexual attraction and politics…the leaky mascara as she or he cries running screaming the rape of the soul done with the luxury of a manicure.▬