zig-zaggy free

it is hard not being able to write original stories
the sequences seem easy and the plotholes
seemingly vanquished after plot-drafts and
character equations; yet the anima or animus of it all
a description, a synopsis or synopses evade me or to
sound witty my synapses; that may seem strange and pathetic
but a truth may not be our idyl of grand. Truth can be humourous
or self-humourous; the teasing of self or the teasing out. Curiouser
and Curiouser, the rabbit hole gets filled with mud and the tea-party
with rock salt and I wondering if writing this poem will allow me
to write a story. Would this free-writing enough? Have to se…▬


this import of aggression that ennui had made
worsted and winnowed into a fine parable
that only I can share; I who hold the bones
and the crosshairs of my skeletal affixations

this tire which is smoothened and crinkled by the night
whose gaze is not a penetration by a clitoral malady
and not a sufficeless prefix that pretends to bode well

there is a feeling, as I said in the last verse, an endless beginning
or a ending without any beginning. I am obsessed with ennui and boredom
because I do not know if life was an egg for me or already a chicken
whose paleontology I studied in some slaughterhouse on some heap
and made up crude names for its near-extinction. Yes, near extinction…

for we have domesticated life and the simulacra of domestication continues
you may say I too sometimes become manifestation of such a domestication
where culture restricts my sex to either so-called modesty or so-called openness

for the Venus De Milo is a nude without arms  and the Mona Lisa is always a
guesswork in progress. Caught between the Madonna and the Whore of Old
wondering which path I can take and knowing so forging my own takes more courage
it takes a certain kind of loyalty which is civil disobedience but there is Walden I can

retreat to feeling that there would be no taxation upon my sex and gender; even if I bide as a conscious gynandrous of sorts. I do not like to be bound as bondage portraits nor fixed as a saint. I want a messy me; getting tired of being a pendulous predictable.▬

solace temporary; torture temporary

bits and pieces of raggedy bone
that is the slimming of my patience
reading other poets online to be inspired
as I am exasperated, weight gain and the logic of dieting
it infuriates me; not due to non-participation, I need exercise
yet a lush-and vivid life too; to call my own
this ennui blinks and I am tundra or desert or something of barking sap
madness of impatience winning, I am no race winner. I came second place once
in Year 2, Class 2, I have the silver, white ribboned medallion. I loved running and still do
I love feeling the orbit of the earth on my soles: I have to learn to romanticise treadmills
as sexist bitches and sexist tropes don’t allow me the run I need to feel the axis of my heels
know the axis of the planet. I so want to be a projectile, yet they narrow me to mechanics
objectification of body fitness. I am just angry. Why can’t things be my way for once? God,
why do I always beg? Please give me something as you recently did. I need this. I need to run
in open spaces. For now, only for now, I will also do this liminal walking. Only because I love running
but this is a compromise temporary. I will weave my wings back somehow — God, you have to let me.▬

a sort of dream imagery practice

edging out into convoluting fragments; eclipsing dust settles
the dream is a random wolf searching for its pack
it’s collection of fur; it slaughters nightmare wendigos
in this dream sitting in haunches looking at rabbits
and deers that make the mosaic of the palette
hungering is an option we all are baptised in
how we satiate divides and coalesces — my eyes are thickening like claws
and my mouth are fangs but also a herbivore’s girdle
what of the flowers who watch and match in the intensity of me
they record and they are also me
secretly they entice deathmatches; true gladiators of desire.▬

A Few Quick Thoughts About Triggers That Trigger

I think triggers are understandable like this. We must be communicative and forgive when we can. There are many mean people but there are always going to people who would actually want to discuss their mental health with you. The only way to try to go about it is be patient. Give the person a chance. I think I would try to do that. I love how this article shows that people may not intentionally try to hurt you. They may genuinely feel confused and not know how to respond.

The Belle Jar

One thing that doesn’t seem to get a lot of discussion is what happens and what we can do when two equal and opposing triggers meet.

We tend to often talk about a lot of triggers as if they are are universal and objective and, thus, avoidable by things like trigger warnings. But while it’s true that some things are widely understood to require trigger warnings – eating disorders, for example, or sexual assault, or violent scenes – the truth is that triggers are based on our own personal experiences and traumas. Some traumas (and therefore triggers) are more commonly shared than others – like the things listed above – but some are a bit more niche. And many people (myself included) don’t always know what’s going to trigger them until that train has more than left the station, which can obviously make dodging triggers a bit tricky.

But what I’d…

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flight of legs

they clipped your wings so you could not fly:
you chose to run instead and make some wings of papery grass
to glide away. They try to tame you with a tortuous nag, of civilised society
you found civilisation on a walk with moss and stone
and the freckles of the moon and the cobwebs of the sun
made gossamers on your palms, like rings of trees on blood
and a flowering of lashes and smiles made you who you are
a warrior, phenomenally, to quote Angelou and an angel in the sand.▬

Nandi Vishala and Microaggression

A GREAT POST. I mean it answers and actually frames what I also think about. Yet, Efad asks vital questions later on that made me think as well.

Etches of Ink and Light

The Jatakas are stories about the previous lives of Buddha. But some of these stories could as well be re-read in our current sociopolitical context as sophisticated social criticism. For instance, Nandi Vishala, in one story, is a calf which belongs to a Brahmin. The Brahmin hears about a cart-drawing competition and bets on Nandi Vishala’s strength to pull a hundred carts. As Nandi struggles to pull the carts, the Brahmin verbally abuses Nandi. He calls Nandi a “rascal.” At this point, Nandi stops complying and the Brahmin loses the competition. In fact, he loses his entire life’s savings in this bet. Empathizing with the Brahmin’s sadness, Nandi approaches him and confesses that she didn’t like being called a “rascal” and that only if the Brahmin stops abusing her verbally then she will win the cart-drawing bet next time. The story ends happily. They go back to the cart-drawing bet…

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strolling by

there is a pausing, a nightingale wrapped in dragonfly wings
under a dew of dawn, suckling away in some dream
I am paper like a sunspot, a codex of light with a shadow encased
monument to blood and flesh of kin to stone
rapture comes easily as long as my arteries keep well
the moon slices out a sky-clade garment
we look at each other
stars abound like nectars of a flower
calling bees like me to deflower them so they can deflower me
with longing not sex, we are both subdued by our penchants to sleep
a balance I think.▬