an overabundance of scarcities

Sometimes, I do not wish to be  so energetic
it’s a flavour I do not think can  understandably  keep up with the  wide rooms  of the  world that prefer their camphor and marijuana and cannabis — the world that prefers its weight of gold to be a
perfect pitch of somnambulism.

I am a rockety, rocking chair that is unable to seize the day
because I am over a cliff that has transposed itself into  a  life
the pendulous cliff with its vertiginous gums and precipitous skin
has rubbed me raw as  a cold shower where water droplets become teeth — I have invested in energy, but was told to conserve for the sake of society which nimbly used bastardized fuel  but kept my own
into fossils  — I am  calcified in living and mating with boredom. ..

…now boredom is  a word that is quite crude and raw and primordial evi; lapses into tongues and calamity, into divides
into savage topographies; its nuanced with a nothingness that
has nullified the potency of seeds. It is the cocktail  of grievances
yet it is consumed at happy hours. Only a miracle embedded in consciousness can seemingly know its severance. Yet deliverance
is a scary thing for many. Once you  are exposed to the boredom disease its  syphilis  kills the joy in you.

I want to be happy
yet I am told happiness means excursions
and if all of  us hate that
told to be safe and treat the home as your favourite mauseoleum
then happiness is an energy feels unhappy to be had.▬

Sometimes, suddenly…ceased…

You know somethings are bound to be finite, temporal and it looks at clockwise and anti-clockwise as intrinsically as a phoenix’s life cycle.  It is still hard to imagine why you were so invested in something when the investment, maybe not fiscal or economically measured as in with better libra scales on feelings, but pain is somethings not reductionist or reducible. A reduction of pain and hurt may mean something adverse but it may also mean that you are not knowing how to feel.

Nobody really coaches us on life’s relationship progress; it can go either way, have forks, have no forks, be a forked tongue  that swallows you whole or poisons you with preferences not your own. Even if someone tells you societal expectations and ideals the idyllic may say that it is a cheap whore at times and that it cannot be used over and over.

I am gaining unnecessary frustration due to unavoidable circumstances: I gaining fatigue.  My sleep is now more on an attenuated contract and my waking hours  has some episodic, fails that act like a dick. This has much to do with exploitative behaviourisms of people and also my inability to cut and cauterize parasitic leeches or even vampiric fangs. I am a bit confused at how to abandon someone/something without much blood-loss on both ends. It is like a war but not really; it is more like an impasse that reaches a rock and other rocks to me, and I am thinking am I wrong or rather do I love wrongly?

I love with an insatibale honesty. That is me. I love a bit more  freely than freedom in social etiquette usually allows; this is anything forcefully annoying but it is intense and desires a healthy proximity.  It knows when it is not wanted. It does not make pursuing stalking. It allows a chance of dialogue and if that dialogue is rejected it retracts and attempts to dissolve into fumes. It does not force and does not want to be forced.  I love and try to love with respect and allowances in eccentricities, introversions, extroversions, excesses or even strictness in personalities. My courtesy or voluminable honesty is not appreciated or returned. It is target of ostracization and suspect of “bad taste” or even “overeagerness” that is soon mellowed down by whatever attitude or straight-up hostile  badgering or ignorance/being ignored.

I have felt teary, genuinely upset when I felt slighted/ been slighted for no reason other than communicating an authentic interest in being friends or even by my flaws/mistakes which I earnestly apologised for. Truth is that people want all matters of understanding and appropriation from me but wish to castrate my identity, personhood and existence as a human being. No I am nobody’s saint nor do I have sainthood or masquerade piety on a golden plate with a silver spoon sticking out of  my tongue and mouth. I just notice that the amount of effort I put in even basic comments/conversations is not even met halfway by many people be this acquaintance or most people who claim to be my friends.

They will cajole me and claim that as I am their friend  or even communicating with them I am under some unspoken but legal obligation to give them the time of day, understanding, looking at things from their perspective, etcetera, etceteras, et all of the bullshit committee. Yet when it comes to me they can think they are entitled to bare their fangs, reach out and bite me with accusations or assumptions of my behaviour. If I acted out of their terms of polite homicide I am in for witnessing them spin shit on a fan.

I am genuinely emotionally, mentally and psychologically fatigued by this bullshit, self-absorbed attitude by many I see and interact with nowadays.

Truthfully, I am becoming inept or even devoid of feeling secure or even  comfortable of my own emotions/feelings because of those kinds of people. Decidedly I have conceded to be a bit nonplussed but this is not defeat or acknowledgement to their crapola yellow spined endeavours. This is just me breathing a sigh as a sign that game is on.

If you do not like someone or think you are better think again. Also ignoring someone shows fully that you are incapable of saying what you really think thus it is a coward’s vitamin pack. If you are constantly abusive and selfish it shows that your dictionary or vernacular is only filled with rust and germs out of some neanderthal skull-plate.

Me being sad is not a sign of you gaining self-importance. Me being sad is me being human. Me thinking of you as human and myself as human. It is me finally calling you out on your high pedestal bullshit and  liberating my human right to be appreciated and respected.

isolation in quotes

what do “I” call myself? — a labyrinthine thinker, late bloomer prodigy,
a colloquial slut, a porn actor/actrice, a menagerie of moods, a glass fountain,
a granite slab of boredom, an equanimous person, likely to succeed/fail, tagger of
facebook slogans or pages, popular only in staying unpopular, a blood cycle, a sperm
cycle, a gestation of uneasy testosterones or a nest of comfy oestrogen — what am I?

asking is imperative; you cannot be classes you have to be a class, not a binomial variant,
but a simultaneous crack-whore who can easily be cancelled linear-wise and not charted
in graphs — and the graphs all mounted highs and lows like some floppy or quick erectile tissue
bounded by some bondage mechanism easily quacking or nervously fretting — yeah our so-called
civilized world transcribes to the sexual all too quickly yet will not transcribe to intimacy or a
reproduction of kisses because to the mythical layman fucking is as easy than typing 2+2=1

we are isolated by so much wave and wires — first by seas and mountains now the technical metaphors
of technology; it;s easy to build walls you just need crude, undisciplined yet disciplined, refined geometry:
we learn math in isolation was not Alice there telling the Queen that for to her a jabberwocky is a parable
not a persistent lover of existence. We learn languages in isolation, fruit of needs are supposedly tasted and
tested in a bedroom — when have we so easily conquered all human instincts and personality checks and put
them airtight into a bottle as though everything and anything was masturbation. If I am vulgar you were vulgar
by lacking vulgarity by never breaching or broaching subjects that could make me spill my coffee but be grateful
I had sipped and dined with you in a natural state — and by natural state I do not easily picture you in your
birthday suit happily playing the flute of your clitoral-erection or playing drums with your bosom-chest…yet
you want me to easily think that — when I am flawed will you not know my flaw and tell me so why wither
it as a flaccid beam of self-denial — yeah, I talked all innuendo-like; it’s a language we all easily adopt too
though I think millions never adapt nor else we wouldn’t cry in tissue papers hoping it was the tender skin of
a lover…

why are all our information and acts and knowledges isolated; even with modern precepts of civilization
we love playing colonial pipes, steal the lands of many, decrepit the food and bones of the different,
make outsiders more than insiders and treat wealth the money as though it was a concubine that gave us
all the frenzies our heart desired — we are training ourselves to think heights are step-ladders and all binaries
are trusted celebrities though we all aspire some balance in ourselves. When did we become consumers?  Merely
eaters? Not inventors or hunters or gatherers or builders? — Is only the daft eating the way f the world? Are we only
engineers of a time-stinking buffet or rather a potpourri of so many essences and open to the architecture of the many?
Should we not rinse our tongues and teeth to the palpable instead of the vacuous? I ask myself questions, even dumb stupid
ones that are trivial and exhaustive but only because I think I was born to be hunter not predator or prey. But a gatherer
of immutable gems parasailing in a mutable universe… the scents and dotages of those exquisite structures with their
non-structure and flexible narrations have made me both weep and be teem with adrenalin. I do not think the deforestation
of the mind with conformed categories can easily help. Core beliefs are beautiful but they inhabit more ample space than we
give them credit for; our bones are calcium arranged as leaves of variables…how lovely was this trail of stones and bread…

and because I have these thoughts I may be isolated called mad by peers and hated by equals in class, birth, jobs, counter tables
for I did not drink coffee with cream and sugar but wanted to try a honeyed mix and that made a different in the tongue-nectare
made me mongrel to the refined and I do not know what more I could do — did I not also taste that coffee republic, nod to a placebo,
in the world of narcotics and so much medicinal shots. When I meet others who liked coffee and tea like me would we recognize
each other skins, meats and marrows or has the narrow cubicles sealed that kiss? Wonder if isolation is the new economy of trade…▬

shapes of woman

 

in the pretext and pretense of a stare
gazes up, paraded on, like a sort
of assorted DNA vectoring packaged
and turn sour; plasticity and plastic
shiv darts of stares and shivering and
triggering from the ostensible practice —

— how do humans so discreetly, discretely possess the habit
of partition of the body? As a woman there is a heightened language
rampaging like a great quake and mortar frost and yet even the silences
are swords and pulleys and daggers and catapults but then it is decimated
to a vulgarity of petiteness , the small of her back, a inline curved inside of a
hip; rippling binary breasts — a ruin, a margin-space in which one is  situated,
jabbed and pixelated in body-morphs hardly able to yell in fear of corseted lungs!
And the cone of peticoats and the padding of stray bras. The empire and parliament
and grapevine and cities and meadows of vagina, clitoris and sensational walls that
have no immediate beginning and end is reduced to a limited scope of “hole”, “fingered
hole”, “fucked hole” and a weird confectionery name of “creampies” and “gaping” — was
there a shortage of sugar somewhere? It felt as though a wide atrium, arc, landscape,
individuality there — walked on by inhabitants was suddenly dropped like a odd
rocket and soon everything felt sterile and medicinal and atomically just vacant.

Her mouth was caught. She had began to speak a language of her own. She tripped on tongues
and the grainy fields of taste buds succulent and non-succinctly abiding into the throes of her
broad and screaming rib-cage. Accentuated its muscles with a glass of air and a whole bag, bags
of air and felt liberated. It was not cantankerous but music. She felt like the men at construction
who could be hard and soft at the same time and never told that they were eunuchs. It pained her
these silhouettes their animosity clicked and chipped in her heels as she attended the dinner with
the dying concaved grace of a swan feeling a snag of death that comes from fatigue and exhaustion.
Elsewhere a maid marveled at her dress and thought differently — she thought that this beauty could run
and breathe and smoke and chastise and scream and maul and jump and skip and dress nice wherever
she pleased and all she could do is be called a “maid” and be lesser than a woman who had breasts as her
not knowing its because of suspicious “non-symmetrical” body position, done firstly by breasts, that the
socialite and the maid were one and so they both wear glass slippers ready to break and put gnaws on
their feet. Cinderella was the maid who attended the ball. She was both princess and a worker. Glass heels
may break if you climb up high. That is why construction workers wear boots. Boots and harness. They can
spiral. They can be dads, money-making people, brothers and even amateur stamp collectors. A socialite
is always that and a maid is mostly that. Known only by the glass heals that they wear. Their coexistent
language find it hard to see each other. Because they cannot feel the vital need to undress and go running
in a pool to dive. They are submerged in some useless corners of fixed places.

Mentally ill women are equivalent to lepers. They are ostracized as soon as their neurosis detected. Those
of a masculine, male path are given lesser punishment and chances to override the possibilities of breakdown.
Males, having affairs, trysts even experimental sodomy and then with a cup of tea can watch all the pornography
to addle their minds. Their brains numbed, their erections pressed and pounded, they feel in masturbation a sense
of autonomous self and a societal paternity to help them rid them of blisters and sores. They have rooms in the
social laboratories of the world even if it be religiously or secularly frowned upon — a boy, a lad, doing what he does
it’s no star struck anxiety. It’ll tame by all the necessary outings and goings between home-life and street-walking-life.
Though there are dangers he is told, encourage that is manhood is strong, in mind and body and can overcome. Hysterically
Historically — female who do not smile 24/7th are a plague, those who smile 24/7th are a plague. Those who cry in unhappiness
should be sent in sanitoriums and kept there to die. Desperation leads to coerced fitful spasms of something that becomes a crude
line attempt at sex or even affection and even their participation makes them “sluts” and “teases” and “bitches” and “slags” and
much much more. If she is too quiet she is boring; but if she is talkative she is a pest. Pornography shows women in positions
that made them scratch their head for last time a test made that look and feel pretty painful. Constructed fantasies that aren’t
her own make her blitzy and she doesn’t know what pleasure is. Just scraps and scrapes at some corridors running just to
get a climax nor else the erection won’t go down. Her morning erection feels painful, knocks out sleep but she still gotta put
out breakfast. And of course if she wants to do anything out of the ordinary people will type her off, other women will too
there are no porn magazines, no gaming tournaments and no tea-party rock for her. In extended isolation, of knowing there
are existing bodies who wouldn’t give a rat about her body she loses it! Screams it! Pounds the walls! — yeah they called
the cops! In shackles and tagged as maddie she is leftover of some system gone bad. No one asks why a person would do
that.

For a woman is usually called a woman first, a person later.  There is something asymmetrically true about a woman even in
her symmetrical decline to madness and grief….— it is manifested strength in different dimensional chronologies that are not
always the linear lisps of boredom.

Woman, like man and yet kept distanced by some added differences. But why is that when you converse with them over cups
of tea you feel that in your male reflection she had added tea-leaves that show you yours as well as her own?▬

Gustavo Arellano: ¡ASK A MEXICAN! Special Mexicans are Racist Edición

“The Irish were the Mexicans of the United States before the Mexicans. Millions of them migrated to this country destitute, as indentured servants (the precursor to the bracero program) and even as illegal immigrants. They were fleeing a homeland under siege by evil Protestants only to find similar treatment in the States. Gabachos here maligned the Irish for their Catholicism, their funny English, their big families and constant state of inebriation–stereotypes popularized by the mainstream press. The Irish fought back: they formed gangs and voting blocs and–in the case of the Saint Patrick’s Battalion–an entire battalion of hundreds of soldiers defected to the Mexican side during the 1846 Mexican-American War.

I think it is important to understand that racial and culture identities are not so usually easy to understand let alone integrate. You think about Republicans in US who are Irish and think at times if they forgot their struggles or even penny-pinching Democrats. In my country a lot if people forget their origins quickly and love the idea of amassing power.

 

Gustavo Arellano: ¡ASK A MEXICAN! Special Mexicans are Racist Edición.

like a wire in the lung

 

there is hardly a chronology of abuse
not with the precepts given that is
it can be tender as a balm to a wound
like a hair slowly fondled back and forth
or cloth; soon manifesting in a jerking
the slap is not fully open palm, nor back hand notoriety
it is as though the abuser revels in the egomania of invention
of this picture of you and attempts to polish it with your blood
and bone; catapult it to some sinister trap.

Yet then the blame is all you, you and you
it feels as though as a virus fucked your immunology
and then put WBC as the scapegoats and the cold
as the final slice into your still breathing cadaver

like a wire in the lung perplexed in the ruse
traumatized in the cell; abused by the jaw that
favoured and caressed you choke and the choke some more
your experience of mere living in mind and body tattered to a bitter
fettered to the smack of a druglord that gives chemical overdose

no matter how punctured you are you make it out
with bruises and itches and scratches and scrapped arteries
and like the shedding of a cocoon you cast out the cloth of sin
and though you recover in mosaics of embroidered networks

You recover
By God, you do…▬

More info; enlightenment and things that changed

Well, I am afraid that I didn’t read that portion of my old post that well because then I would wrote something larger but truthfully it is good some things are best said well in longer after-posts.

In my last post there is a mention of a family. Of children and how there were cuts and bruises on their kid. I want that family to starve, be humiliated and possibly end up totally ruined.  Yes, the so-called “mom” and “dad” are a bunch of professional actors. It seems my brother married a girl who actually has a history of four or three previous marriages (which she never told us) and she never told us because that is her profession. Apparently, she prostitutes herself this way and her family is in on it.

For a while, like for two years they made my brother’s life hell. My poor brother may get angry but he is not abusive but they were. That Bitch claimed once how bad my brother was at times like screaming at her and I thought maybe she is right but guess what? Her family are the ones who are mentally and physically abusive. They did not let my brother eat properly; they would torture him by starving him and giving him small amounts of money after stealing the money my Dad gave him for the trip. And they did that ingeniously too. Bitch wife forced him to buy them “presents” like expensive stuff. I won’t forget how happy my Mom got when she thought my brother was buying her jewelry because it is a sweet gesture — he called asking about jewelry — my Mom said it was not needed but he never bought her that kind of thing before. Well, it wasn’t for her, it was for “mom”.

Can you imagine my Mom’s face after that? My brother not buying her things but buying expensive things for a woman who didn’t have the courtesy to even feed him properly?

Then they would always threaten police arrests if my brother got angry at their rude behaviour and made him bike long distances because well they wouldn’t even give him bus fare to go places. Bitch wife in their bedroom slapped and kicked my brother and he had to hold her hands and pin them so that she didn’t get more violent. And it was always on little differences she would get mad or if he didn’t agree something for her or family. Bitch wife had rabies and my brother was the vet stuck with her bitchy self and her entire rabid family because, unfortunately, my brother was naive to think if he stuck around it would work out. Yeah, she also forced him at times to write “romantic” comments of facebook wall and when a friend of my brother’s said that sounded (the comments)  a bit weird she snapped as said he shouldn’t talk to him because he is a “bad” friend (those kind of disagreements).

There are other horror stories but I cannot write them because I have to keep my brother’s privacy but when he finally had enough he came back and yeah he was very sad.

Like a PTSD soldier he would feel lost and depressed. At times he would get angry for small issues or large ones but then slump into a depression that was really severe. Sometimes, he would just lie down and refuse to walk around or eat or do anything. Other times he would just eat and eat uncontrollably showing his  starvation. Well, his body showed starvation too and it was a brutal sight seeing my very tall brother emaciated and feeling dizzy as if fatigued and dehydrated and famished and well starved for affection, love and understanding.

They kept the gold jewelry my Mom gave. All of it. By tradition and even any cultural standards you don’t keep what your ex gave to you if its like a wedding ring or more. No, those shameless bastards kept everything. Bitch wife claimed, when my brother was there, that she lost her diamond wedding ring.  Bitch wife actually pawned it. That’s not the only thing she pawned. All the gifts, jewelry and all she kept so she can sell at her convenience.  Bitch wife also kept my brother’s entire DVD collection and might be selling that too. Bitch wife also kept a beautifully illustrated copy of a book I gave to my brother as a present that I wrote a personal message inside  for him to read.

This desecration of personal and intimate artefacts coupled with the desecration a human life is grave robbing and life robbing mixed into one. I cannot believe how these people even keep on breathing. I bet their lungs and other organs are a bunch of rotten crap. (Did I mention “mom” has a pacemaker?).  They are as dangerous as serial killers. They deserve to suffer. Why? I usually try to be quite empathetic to people who even have been rude to me or torturous to me but a Bully and a Sadist with capitals I cannot forgive especially when they are comfortably living not at all economically challenged and have gotten so much love and attention from my family!

In our culture, the jewelry given at marriage are like a maternal or at times paternal lineage or legacy. Like from my father as he was given by his mother or father and their parents. It spans like 3 or 4 generations or even more at times. You can imagine my Mother’s feeling of devastation when her family heirlooms where stolen by these abusive people. And also all her prized possessions. You can imagine my Father’s heartache at also losing so much money and support that were being parasitically taken like a tapeworm glued to their asses by these people.

Obviously, their largest Sorrow and Misery and Pain was that their son came back upset and depressed with PTSD type symptoms at the psychological bullshit they mustered up for him. The full extent is not even known obviously as pain like that cannot be cataloged like an Argos magazine item priced and fully tagged. Bro just kept some things to himself and decided to just well try to get better.

You hear it and you understand more when it happens to you and usually this kind of domestic violence and psychological afflictions and mayhem happen with children or women but truth is those are the stories we hear or want to hear. Men also go through such events by other men or women. Our societies have also a lease, a law on the parameters of domestic violence and what type of violences can be talked about. Once a close friend of mine, Sania, talked about how an aunt of hers was remarrying — after ten years. Last husband was schizophrenic and she was unaware of that (many marriages happen where people involved don’t know about their so called significant others’ background; it is purposefully hid) and she was in shock and misery for that 10 years because it was a very traumatic experience. It took her such a long time to get over that kind of relationship.  And my own aunt was duped into marrying a sick man who died while she was pregnant.

Her marriage was a forceful one. It happened a long time ago and she was lost in village weirdness.  Her parents thought they were doing the so-called right thing. Well she started screaming and swearing at them that thy are fucked up and that they ruined her life. They did. That man, my uncle, was suffering from a cardiovascular disease that disallowed him any sexual activity. But he did it anyway. Resulting in him always ending up in the hospital afterwards. My aunt always wondered what was happening. At that time my maternal Grandfather seriously objected to this wedding but no one listened to him. My aunt did not even know her husband had such a problem.  Then he died. Leaving her pregnant and alone. After she gave birth her in-laws and their family were so crude to her that she had to go back living with her own family.

Sixteen, with a child, and not very educated and at that time though she was a city girl this had been a village affair. She couldn’t remarry. Men those times and even now do not like to marry girls who have children. Maybe times are changing and men do change but in those days men had a serious problem marrying a girl with a kid — oh, they could fuck around but a women who has a child from a previous marriage and legally by many rules and standards is not fit to marry. Not to mention her son is a total ass at times and she had do a lot to keep him at least semi-happy. At times she was very mean to him and that is what that ungrateful child remembers and doesn’t remember how she tried and tried so hard to keep him happy. Not to mention that brat also hated her getting re-married if she could because he loves his dad too much and knowing everything that is very unfair to his own mom. I can understand that his father is totally a bad guy and that to his child he probably would be A quality and any child has the right to reminiscence their father. But they must also take into account the other factors involved. Yes, she shouldn’t have been mean but she told me truthfully it was out of helplessness. She couldn’t buy him pretty things and she didn’t know how to handle him asking for them. She is strong but I know she is heartbroken and lonely at times too.

My brother, Thanks To Allah Almighty (God), recovered and has a girlfriend; someone new he can love and trust. But it wasn’t easy. There were lots of sad moments between them  because she too was betrayed and both of them had trust issues. But you know it was also a heart issue. How can you navigate your feelings and emotions when someone has brutally sawed them, left them tactless and even scarred and bruised your entire body just for some money or ego trip? It becomes hard at times. You survived a major ordeal. But at this moment they love and need each other. They  shouldgrow and be strong from and for each other. And at this moment, Thank God, they are; they are trying.

I heard Bitch wife sold some of our jewelry and bought herself a shiny new car. Now I know why Hell exists. People like them deserve all kinds of reprimand. All types of executions and punishments earthly and otherwise. My brother suffered. His wounds were deep. They isolated him from us and even made him stop talking to us; limit or delete his facebook so that he can’t talk to us.  That is violence and abuse. Not to mention she referred to me as a slut and retard to him at every turn though I never wrongfully spoke to her in my life. These kind of people advertise empathy but then steal and they are classic sociopaths and raising their kids as ones too. The biggest “mystery” is that the youngest sister may be actually Bitch Wife’s daughter from a previous affair that they advertise as her sister. Ironically, my brother named her.

So, yes, this is the tale or tales of some tragedies. The enlightenment I got was that some people are perverse and are strange sadist fetishists who prefer looking at parts of people (their body, breasts, genitals, hair, wealth, connections) and just abuse that. Sure, we all have made friends or contacts based on some categories but we treated them as human beings, we were humble when they offered any aid and we remembered that they had other things to do as they are not only two dimensional they are more.

I think the line between serial killer and serial abuser is sometimes very thin because once you have wounded a person so deep and then laughed and snorted at their misery as it was your coke fetish, haven’t you done something that equals to murder?

Your comments are welcomed. If you have faced this, going through it, or survived this I want to know. Or just know of someone or just plainly want to say something about it go right ahead though if you are going to make fun of the pain of the people involved here saying my brother is not a man and aunts are bitches or what not then don’t dare write anything. You are not the man and you are the bitch because you do not know how a situation like that is. Haven’t there been people in your life who were mean or really gross. You can’t solve every problem by punching a person unless you are on an equivalent turf. For everyone else: What do you think about all of this ?

nutshell boredom

 

my life, my life, where are you hiding oh my life?
cut the crap — fuck, you oh fuck you and cut the crap!

it hurts when I swear for no valid reason and that in turn becomes
a valid monstrous reason — I am  a shell, like an abandoned crustacean’s home —=— like the crust that Gaea abandoned or some spirit abandoned because God said it’s time for you to be all supernovae or just some scheduled apocalypse on that street of a system and I am a raging pulsar fighting a battle that has already been
scheduled to end — only, I feel God did not schedule this random catastrophe this apostrophe that has made bed and bedlam with destruction and a bedfellow of ennui and a particle dark matter of elusive nimblings like some erotic orgasm you had while asleep with
lovers a and b gone into a recess shrapnel of ‘I will explode later’ or “inappropriate gag sex reflex’ or something and I am hoping to understand what the fuck did I do to deserve this ragdoll of a boredom to hump and fuck and then just feel the humping and fucking again…. what poised poetry of a life do I have?

I can breathe well. Good. God Bless. But I want to breathe in too. To know aromas here exotic and away familiar and that is bombarded by a barricade of ‘no friends’, ‘no good job or preferred job’ or  ‘pure classic paranoia’ — I am hating it feeding boredom and lethargy when I should forever be moving; gravity’s center has laid me as its egg — I told you an apostrophe was involved —

— and here I am venting to a venting system where rage will be broken down even if its heard because people prefer the cool, indifferent, ignorant air than realizing the capsizing of an individual madness….

We teased each other

in good fun until I became a poison to your dream of longing
you wanted forever, I said one day never
and that pushed you into a film of stuck=up depressed
I am sorry; I was being so selfish but I wished you had asked
because the signs may have gone the other way
but it’s a poor excuse because you don’t talk to me anymore
and I miss having you like my afternoon tea or nifty lunch so sacred to a regular soul
for friendships are needed, but your heart bleeded and I am at a core
bled me dry you said then tried to wrap a band-aid on naked lung hell the image is grotesque but you persisted on this graphic line and expected no consequence
hell, I am not impressed
but will you forgive and can I forgive because if malice was not intended and the world was not disjointed maybe a kiss at a different timed tongue may have sufficed
but this world that harvest rubies cannot console the coal until it diamond racketed
so instead I tell the lonely graphite that it has use for even if we are no longer bedfellows we are still a memory label and stitched in a quilt of our preferred design and made whole as a beehive stung honey coat etching on the rafters of raw, unrefined slow elegance._▬