ennui-tonic

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.▬

late night interruptive prosaic sounds like prozac don’t it

I get sick many times; late night philanderer of obscure matrices of thoughts
buoyant-dandy in the streets, gothic urban pavements, of my own creation
“own” here is a complicated word; I did not know I made them
involuntary chemicals and imagination spasms did. I am not sure
What needs to be done amongst them — I wrote the capital “W”
in the “what” right now as a serendipitous affair — it was a shift of my sick-at-the-moment
fingers that accidentally caused me to do so — meaning there are unconscious lisps in me
glad my fingers are fluidly perfect in their imperfection. It took me like 3 hours or more to write this because I was interrupted, by Youtube, reading and other conversations — and cognition and cogitation — persuasive, that word I got from Kendrick Lamar’s “Money Trees” . I am a mosaic on many integrations and I integrate too — in cyberspace, physical spatial syntax, my tongue quivers, my breath vibrates — I roar with my being. Sick but not defeated.—

this map of mine

it is within my sacral limits to topple the hegemony that disobedience
portents to obedience; after all rebellion is mostly a calculated maneuver
to make you obey a system by being its polite dissident – that is why I stretch
by and beyond the labels. If I am an archetype, a sterotype, a weaker sex what is that I am so weak on – are you telling me you have written the map to strength?

My bones are the same of yours, count one more or less or maybe not this derivative – I am a coliseum of non-apartheid lust and alienness unifying with the native. the UFO is mankind; walking among a cosmic thread of black holes and intersteller meteorite-pilgrims; we are static but excel in momentum…

,,,I am a both a galaxy of sound and a big bang of whimpers
a hypernova will try to mimic me…

intimacy-issues

I am fond of long goodbyes
as though they were a long banquet
not equivalent to the portrayal of the last meal  because there was no betrayal for coins —-
no deceptive kiss on the cheek

I love the drippingness of sweet words
Hopes that could leap out and embrace
A resolution to a conversation that may have gone wrong; ebbed and flow bile in stead of black humours. The miasma of it churning out may be placated by the salts and coals and waters of a peaceable parting. A promising of next time affairs being gently etched and understandingly bitter but less acerbic in the end.

The sly judas is anti-intimacy
not everyone favours the long kiss
brevity is wit right or so they think
a peck on the cheek is fine; two makes the sweet couplet. But a pentameter is not necessarily short…. a sonnet requires the taste of stanzas. While I wait to encholate on the compositions of tongues and fingertips I get a spurt of half-line codes. Deception becomes the  perception. A perfunctory peck becomes as tragic as silver coins. Time is money. People have other things to do.

While I who wanted a banquet
Satiate with a diet of shorter, odder meals — I must patiently wait to meet my parallel, my paradox, eating to wait whilst everyone on queue perhaps ponders on the delicacies of mastication.—-

I feel alone.

I feel alone.
And I have forgotten how to write.
once I use to flirt with linguistic possibilities
and now I just don’t do anything…

I don’t write anymore
writing has not been killed in me
but I don’t know what to write
or, how to write
or, is it makes sense to me to write?

I asked myself this question
as I write this, and in the writing what I wrote may be a start or not}
I always tried to be hopeful; I still am
I just think I am too old
my youthful exuberance has failed me
my life is nothing but security and in that I found insecurities
I had and have passions but who wishes to know them or understand – does it really matter?

Perhaps, I have failed for now.
perhaps, I won’t fail again.
But…if failures means I have tried
isn’t that evidence enough for some kind of existence…

Slights or the inconveniences of childhood

There is something about a “slight” — you know a slight happens because it was always sideways aggression. It has been around and you sort of meandered into it. I have faced this gesture before, this action: in all explicitness, it is both “gesture” and “action”, both nonverbal and verbal. Slights are gestures as in they are meant to gesticulate a form of forced negativity. An action as it is subconsciously present and soon consciously put into a form of practice. I had understood I had been slighted by a bunch of undergraduate students at a party. And I know why this had happened. It happened for many reasons: one is considering intelligence, the other is social magnetism and the other is a perceived insult.

To talk on “considering intelligence” is to extrapolate on ideas about how odd you may think another person’s “nerdiness” or “geekiness” is. If you have perceived intelligent you may easily ostracised or rather a good talker in conversations. Now, I am not being egotistical but being considered nerdy or geeky can be a considerable threat to people who are still learning to learn their own skins and flesh. And being able to communicate ideas effectively is also considered a big deal. Especially if you are a migrant, especially if you are there to help make a framework of privilege, when that is defied people are automatically threatened.

I am South Asian. I have an americanised accent. I am a geek and nerd who is comfortable around strangers in a party and able to talk to them. Without the drink. I can act zany and be in tune with who I am. Also, I am much older but I apparently never look that age.

This is perceived threatening to people. I am an odd creature. I am like a somnambulist in a crowd of dreamers.

And so they decided to ask me multiple times to come to a club with them. I agreed.

When the time came they left without me.

And then when I just said “hi” on facebook they proudly stated they went.

It was a slight if not fully intended. It just was in their minds. They didn’t like me. I am good as a theory (they wanted me to hook up with a dude, I specifically said “are you trying to ship me with him?” they said “yes”) but I am not palatable as a praxis (seeing me with a bar with them).

I write this because you may be slighted not because you are an undesirable but rather you may have traits that are desirable to a certain point. People, I was told, liked to bold, chivalric and interesting without having to giggle, drink and play the clown. However, this doesn’t happen easily rather it takes a lot of few to get down to it. So, if anyone defies this logic it is a threat to a person’s way to function through that precarious position of partying and socialising.

I did not write them to elevate my status or condescend anyone. I wrote it as I was once bullied so much it was good to know that exclusion, as in social exclusion, is not really someone’s fault. After all a collective is not an individual’s choice. It is the choice of the collective. So, many a times, you are not responsible at all for being not accepted. It just happens.

without the drink

 

trickling down, a droplet of absurdity
parenthesis entity — that is me
I am a creature sublime to oddities
artefacts can behold me and I beholden
the seas of chaos, calamity and serenity;

surprised aren’t you when my mouth glides
on tongue and I produce a kiss of words
in sobriety, I mated with soberness and it was
sombre, there is a seriousness in the sexiness
of some abstinence and some less inhibitions (a hybrid)
I am caught in tongues, who are not carcera to cheeks

it feels in the midst of conversations I am the phantom
I do not glow with the iridescence of being high
yet I am a novelty of loosened limbs and tongue
without the bottle — I am still an engaged firefly of sorts

trying to talk to everyone … —

getting comfortable in things not spoken or a) rambling on about current feelings b) trying to incorporate something ontologically philosophical in them

it is strange what you may feel; you are intimate with the non-intimate passive-aggression,
I guess this is how bullied will always feel like — that you feel for something that may not
matter in the long run; you feel abused because it is strange…how people hate, how people
can learn to hate…it makes you think…should hate be a form of ambition for them?

you are not alone in the pub. Yet you are one of the few who don’t drink, that is actually not
an outsider thing to do, remember that, you could be designated walker and driver for all that
is mentioned and shared. You have to adhere to what you believe and your beliefs, religious or secular, they matter. Seeing people get drunk with talk is sweet wine for the one who is warmed
by interaction…yet, a small voice says, are you the odd one out? Not for drinking, not for skins,
it’s just you with your eccentric way of saying things — even if your accent is as perfect. Maybe,
it’s just you…have fun…your small confidences light others’ too as Williamson once said. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful, as she said, powerful more than we can measure and sometimes our light, our power, threatens others, who have only lived with their inadequacies, not their light, they fear
to be liberated for that would be the responsible thing to do than sulking in one’s own shame and fears. You don’t have to be responsible for them either, don’t fall into the trap that you need to be loved by everyone…what should you gain from love from people who may not know love? If they willing to learn, teach, but it is also mostly self-taught, so you cannot patronise either. One of those pretty sacred things, nothing profane or impure nor pure in being superiority complex can really reach it…hang around the sun, the moon, the clouds, the stars and any meteors and odd curvatures of light…you will reach places…

and the places you reached, will not have people who hurt you
and the places you reached, will not chart all the editions of yourself you did not want
and the places you reached, will polish you with all the organic you needed sans plastics
you will have yourself in footnotes and bibliographies of nostalgia and you know what
it’s perfectly sane to carry on your past, but it is insane to let it rupture you completely.
You should rupture to regenerate not to lose yourself and feel lost…what can you feel with
putting yourself feeling lost? Is it always the feeling you need? Your destination may be unambiguous
but need not be undefined as in the now-present, feeling a bit sure but having immediate purpose is a good destination for now.

if you feel you have lost enough, then you have, you won’t lose more
the universe does not keep random quotas of punishing you nor does it keep
an incensed brow to spit on your happiness, your sadness may be meant to be fuel for later happinesses or awarenesses, your happinesses may lead to some sadnesses too, however,
not all the time. Your emotions have too much meaning for a simple x and y graph with the vectors all
aligned — you can be good at the things needed to be good at if you try as talent is a cultivated institution as well, not to feel all is haplessly cornered and squared into genetics. Even if you suffer from a condition know that the condition can be transmuted and put into what you are learning or wanting to learn  — it is perfect way to be an original without feeling the need to try too hard. Hard enough and soft enough.—

I  rambled on and may keep on rambling on. For rambling on sometimes is needed. We are too immured at times to the feelings of non-confessions, non-pathologies, isolated simplicities of being a “normal product” — even if normal may just be a few gestures, a few vowels, not all, to the consonant to each person’s abecedarian inclinations and formations.

We must remember we are uniquely shaped even by the same experiences.—

confessions (ii)

Today I wanted to shake hands with a girl in a lecture. She seems uncomfortable and uninterested; she had bright red hair, coloured as a cherry. She spoke on Jeanette Winterson. On gender. And I didn’t impress her. I was just there. I was just an odd person. The guy who sat next to me just walked away not caring of me. And my flatmates don’t seem to think I am great either. I feel like the fool.

Well, today I talked to the cherry redhead. She seemed to reciprocate my conversation. My flatmates are becoming responsive too. I guess I needed time. I am not saying that I blew them away or impressed them. But one of them thought it was okay to feed me a raspberry with her own hand in my mouth. The gesture was so caring and thoughtful. It brings tears. Right now. Another shared her dinner with me. You know I am just really happy because it is really pleasing to have have that really.

I guess I was really interested in Cherry (I will call the redheaded girl that). Cherry seems to be really thin. Like she has no weight. Compared to me who packs extra pounds. Cherry has immaculate white skin. She wore a jacket today, a black blouse which has t-shirt sleeves and is not willowy but cut midriff, I saw the accentuation of her bones and her tiny waist. Her long legs and hip to half-knee length green skirt skirted around my head as brilliant aesthetics. The cold did not bother her waifish frame. My fats are stored but tickled by the breeze. Her resistance and buoyancy to the cold made me so impressed. Cherry has a sweet tone too. She seems shy but attentive. The problem is I guess we are all shy. I wanna talk to Cherry more as her research is on gender and all about the fluidities and fixities of gendered spaces, or so she talks on. Which is impressive. I wanna know more people on campus.

The funny thing is that the guy who seems aloof of me still seemed aloof of me today. Like it is his intention to avoid me and I decided that okay if that is what he wants sure. I mean, today he came into the foyer and acted like he didn’t know me, wouldn’t meet my eyes, and then asked where I liked to which I casually replied. I do not appreciate behaviour like this. I do not know is it something I did or said. Or, if he is also being shy but right now I cannot process this. I have no time and I have ample work that needs doing.

I know I am not special. I know I may lack a lot of basic skills. Also, compared to others I am not that intelligent. However, I am human. And I deserve basic human empathy and kindness. And so does everyone.