I haven’t written
And, I haven’t chosen to be written;
though I am written in leaves and blood
and the mud — snapping with teeth
like the branches of the woods

Oh, youth, you made me feel fresh

And immortal

Not a serving of flesh cased behind a bone
and all the bone is chewing to break out
to now what it cannot know, now

I wanted so much to know what it was like to write
to have known if I had written anything of any value

I am writing as I will always write
clutch my blood next to the quilled ink
sparrow along the ridges and dominant the
lull of the breath; stay passive at the apex of the muscle

I will knead into me a belonging in poetry
as the bread knows the yeast and the sky knows the sun.—

Not everyone will like you — Medium

via Not everyone will like you — Medium.

One day, you find a yellow orchid in your room

But you don’t like orchids

A week later, the orchid starts flourishing

But you still don’t like orchids

Two weeks later you notice a golden reflection on its surface

You start disliking the orchid a little less

A month later, you bow to the orchid

For despite your dislike the orchid kept flourishing

And just like the orchid not everyone is going to like you

But as you continue flourishing many will admire you

I really loved this poem I saw in the Blogging platform Medium. I mean this was one of the best pieces I read today (though I didn’t read much today or any day, my reading is as daft and dry as  an iguana in a snowman outfit). I really know this does feel true. Not being liked is a case that is  considered quite important — two other stories seem to capture my attention focusing on likeability a) Mark Zuckerberg, the founder and maker of Facebook, has willingly become homeless to prove a point for likeability (he did it to have solidarity with homeless people) and b) NHS gets both critical feedback and admiration after Justin Bieber endorses for it. The second story has probably more to do with national health care than likeability but the NHS is a subject of much talked about criticism. If you ever lived in the UK or visited it for a long period of time you will know funding the NHS is a mammoth issue. And funding on it depends on likeability to an extent (I can be wrong but I feel rather than know it to be that way).  Zuckerberg’s act followed his own criticism. Some of it is unfair. Others like the one by Mike Goldsmith, actually shows a better response:

Mark Zuckerberg making himself homeless is like a bulldog making himself a vegetarian. Selling stock ,buying a tent and deciding to camp out is not being homeless. Being homeless is when you lose everything, not give it up. It’s when you are forced to face the harshest elements of life by circumstance , not by choice. Camping out on a sidewalk, eating in a soup kitchen by choice isone thing but doing it as your only means of survival,that’s quite something else

I am sure Mark means well, but if he really wants to do something he should abandon these optics and do something that will really make a difference. With his resources he should do something to address the circumstances that put most of his new found friends on the street in the first place. He has the means to create and fund opportunities that would help a lot of people find new meaning and purpose. He could be a force behind new sources of rehab, retraining and jobs. Unfortunately, this “Look at me” optic is not the way to go.

So mark, If you really want to help, get off the street and actually do something that will make a difference. Stop acting like the lost little boy with to many toys and act more like the captain of innovation that you are….

That does make sense actually. We do get derailed to actually want “likeability” and this actually affects who we are. Like many people don’t talk about their editing processes feeling that likeability is focused on some template of genius. And that is true, we are all inculcated to believe the genius requires no effort. And for a while  I believed that too. Actually, the genius might need more effort in many things and that, with her/his innate vision, is genius is usually born and borne. I will readily admit that I had to read the comments’ sections and also the main article to get the gist of what was happening in the Bieber article (the article by Williams is a bit vague if you ask me because I didn’t read the title properly but I also feel it paces on ambiguous  terms without announcing its ambiguity because it probably doesn’t know what to think about itself; it is a bit divided and that is fine). However, most people won’t mention that for likeability. I am not always going to put likeability in parenthesis because likeability and “likeability” are both concrete and also elusive phenomenon. Everyday likeability and the major form of “likeability” (as a collective or pouring into theme) is faced by all of us. We may not know it but many or some of our actions are based on likeability and “likeability” — though it is true that some social etiquette and politeness should be taught many people overburden themselves with it all the time leading to overall ungratefulness. And this is where “likeability” and likeability actually does fail.

Jonathan Franzen wrote an article of being liked saying it was for cowards. The article also mentions Donald Trump but it was written in 2011 (Trump’s recent comments are more on the extreme scale than on any likeability or “likeability” scale: that is another topic. It is one thing to be disliked by going your own way and another to be disliked for racism, totalitarianism, extremism, plutocracy and oligarchic need for control in human interests which become reduced and violated as your own interests), so, it is more on how consumer culture is based on wanting to be liked more and it has nothing to do with love. Love is an adaptation, poetry in progress and motion, love is also constructive criticism, helping you reach great heights — liking is more about satiating some immediate need and moving on. Though that is important too the main thing I gleaned and developed my own way from this article is that you can’t have either/or: one extreme corrupts the balance you have for yourself. We must do things we like but we must also be challenged and become finer, polished beings, so we require that love too, tough or soft, it’s a need and ultimately a want for us as humans.

As some short stories on depression show in Medium that liking, even for a gift, after a point fails. I put in part of the story down below:

“Karen! Guess what?” he asks excitedly.

I look at him to acknowledge his question.

“I got you an iPhone 5 instead of 4!”

I consider this. I consider him –– his face lit up in excitement and anticipation of my reaction. I feel nothing.

“Pretty cool, right?” he says as he hands me the box.

I take the box from him and shimmy it open to reveal the iPhone nestled in itspackaging. As I lift it from its shell and examine the polished design, I think about how I should be grateful.

“Thank you, daddy,” I say because it is the right thing to say. But I still feel nothing. It takes a Herculean effort to force the corners of my mouth up.

Thoughts wander aimlessly through my mind. I think about how my dad is trying so hard to make me happy. I think about how disappointed my lack of reaction must be. I think about how if I felt any emotion, I would feel guilty for being unable to show him happiness. Guilty for not having accepted his gift with more grace and grandeur.

The pain in this piece is obvious. After a point likeability can fail. To a person suffering depression liking, likeability and “likeability” fails big time. Because there are times, like when is depressed or suffering from depression, no gift can really cheer you up.

Well, likeability and “likeability” in themselves can be complicated issues but no matter how complicated the complex in you has a greater chance fate and faith to win. Because we were all made to be uniques in and with and within a collective. So, we are born into a middle-ground many a times. Unless, you truly want extremity or it is dished out on via circumstances, I don’t think you have to worry on it being your identity too much though another reality is it is hard not to worry too much either. We just have to find frequencies that work for us.

The orchid at the beginning of the poem may have blossomed elsewhere or change its pot and dirt; but as long as its reached this state it’s fine even if no one admired it immediately for it or at all. The thing is some honest things won’t be admired either but you can choose if that is something you can live without being appreciated for: whether you can or cannot doesn’t also determine your worth; you may be living a different life and may have different needs. When I was younger I read the dialogue between Jane Eyre and Helen Burns pertaining to this likeability and “likeability” (the novel itself tracing a lot around it) — I suspected that Burns was wrong when she thought Eyre’s humiliation publicly in their boarding school should not matter as long as God still loved her. I wasn’t wrong in thinking Helen Burns was wrong but I was wrong in thinking she totally was. Burns is not totally wrong. To her, this sort of humiliation did not matter, she was older than Eyre and probably had faced this form of torment previously, she has known that people can be stupid and hypocritical and cruel. But she is wrong to seem desensitised to it and not understanding Jane Eyre’s younger self’s need of acceptance and also how justice needed to be served there which only honesty and truth could help prevail in it. Yet, at the same time Jane Eyre should know that getting their aproval should not be her end goal. Both have right arguments in that debate. It was the frequency, the extent of each voice in it, that needed to be understood and possess a corrected pitch.

I would like to conclude with someone’s poem, who is at the moment, my favourite poet on the internet:

If there’s a tic in your toc

It wasn’t me – I am afraid

Of its –  r.a.p.i.d.n.e.s.s

Especially when running

So very – f.u.c.k.i.n.g – late

This poem by Mari Sanchez Cayuso is called Time. Someone in the comments stated that the use of expletives helps the piece. I agreed. If Mari was only vouching for likeability and “likeability” alone she may have exempted from it (though the young adult phenomenon of doing anything one wants is actually more with the grain than against it – that is also a separate topic; I just hinted on it). Yet, this piece is  hers and honesty and truth on her conditions and beings is always why I loved and liked Mari’s poems. I guess, in her own way, she has shown a great balance in her for both things.


learning about the syntax, the basic units of affection
pitch perfect  from the beginning of beginnings
you are one of my root languages
we adhere to a shared topography

learning about shadows and silhouettes from you
the inner light they radiate; the aura of things blended in darkness
non-sequestered from good: a vocabulary esoteric but also mainstream
calling you “Dad” is a populist thing — how funny it is, how ironic, that words
can marginalise, limit and go beyond the very anatomy of their morphologies…

you are Dad-fixed, a biological marker, a genetic code that won’t be adverbed away,
a phenotype inheritance; a structural will you weaved subconsciously into my bones and I
did so too…we are like a chess board incomplete with each other…

and maybe the theatre of sky and the amphitheatre of the soil cannot encompass you
because I cannot always encompass you; we are both a wind we breathed and exhaled,
inhaled again like a mountain ridge path. I know that what we had is irreplaceable because it is
a womb participation; you did carry me for nine months by constantly caring about Mom.

and this ribcage will have a bird that sings; a song so plainly beautiful, for it is you and me
Father and  Daughter always and I don’t think a bird like that will stop singing, anytime soon
we will have our oceans and our swimming in them, we will have our sunset afternoons, drinking
tea in them and knowing that warmth is always catalysed by warm company. As you once spoke:
” A candle doesn’t lose its fire by lighting  up another.”

and I wonder which constellations you have lit up, lightened up and now also light in
this inward astronomical that you also know me in, lit up in me with paternal, pure, parental
love. I know how to love also from you. Love is a dedication. Love is both the spine, tail and the brain
with the heart; I cannot repay you for such vowels…

— I love you Abbu



The companion piece with Mari Sanchez Cayuso’s “Consonants“. Both are poems grieving our Fathers and showing our love to them. My Abbu passed away on the 24th, February, 2015 at around 5.00-5.30pm. I miss him every single day. I love you Abbu very much. May Allah Almighty always make you happy.

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…▬

the carousal that is chaotically on — choosing blog themes

I think people have noticed. I change my blog theme. A LOT. Dangerous close to an instability. It’s because I like themes like the retired Vigilance; where writing is a focus but the graphics are crisp and tactile even if one has the minimalist background and is monochromatic. However, I get a aesthetic dissatisfaction after a while because maybe the layout or something about the font or how the font is even presented in the text editor as I write it out makes me feel I can’t get the “weight” or “concreteness” of the font  that is being typed and how  a font needs to give me a mental and emotive satisfaction for me to use it. [Yes, it sounds really WTH but that’s the way I are]

Also now that WordPress produces more premium magazine formatted themes that regulates content as index summaries I get irked or if I use Meyers’ language, “glitter dust got chagrin” (I actually like the word chagrin XD) — because I prefer to manually paginate and regulate content in full width and right there design (yes, I like both subtlety and outward things; I just think that a full bodied text or pictorial layout feels more ripe than a summary palette. I know that I love the buffet approach as I love buffet but I rather like its concept more than it’s execution because I rather take the things on my plate and taste it but seeing the a large quantity of the dish). I think because the magazine summary front page layout is a new thing comparatively to the bulk layout so WordPress is focusing on that. However, I wish there were more free themes like Vigilance and even one like the premium Linen.

When I was in Blogger the custom content was so flexible and free to use that I really miss it a lot at times. In WordPress you can type only in one particular font for all posts; I think to keep up with the aesthetic consistency and visual distraction free methodology of the site it has limited this option. I didn’t use  much but yes it is more malleable than (for those who don’t understand the distinction .com is directly managed, assembled and regulated by the founding company Auttomatic but .org is the WordPress software like accessibility to use profile and dashboard and managing content given out for free download so that you can use them in other sites such as Blue Host). T=In Blogger one of my posts may have had a sans serif like Verdana on one post followed by a serif written post looking neat with Georgia. Also the fonts offered were more. I think for $30 dollars I should have more fonts to use than the ones given if Blogger gives out more for free. Though I really love WordPress these limitations really annoy me a lot.

censorship boaerd


sometimes my heart feels broken
by the avoidance of the cracks of perfection
but by my constant tutoring and coerced adhesion
to a smoothness that is deemed, fit and proper…

shrouded and glared by an apotheosis of tears
rather than an apotheosis of blood, sweat and spirituality
— my teachings from religion squandered by the petty
fashions of a society neither democratic in a minority
nor major in its humanistic promises — the orthodox pulpit
has been now occupied by vulpine commerce, manufactured agnosticism,
manufactured gnosticism, and manufactured awareness and manufactured
subconsciousness concentrated by an artificial orbit by a mental probe
which preoccupies you in Jamais vu and Prosopagnosia or Fregoli delusion
as easily as one matches oil with a match flicker; immolation and Sati by a consumer
demon that plagues the moors and rain forests of a dialogic individual.

the virtues of a society and its ethical bond make Shylock shirk
for even a fleshy pound cannot secure the torments of an eviscerated persona;
there were promises that abnegation is the liberty of self — no it was not religion or
spirit who taught me this  faux-cursive — it was social hegemonic anxiety in its dress of
piety that told me so. If you are away from the herd you are the wolf or the boy
who cries wolf — no one chastises the boy’s boredom or loneliness; though fibbing
is wrong is not ennui wronger? I am just an economic index, a social index, a census —
my body and mind and sex censored and clipped by a stool pigeon on some GDP rat race
to God knows where? I knew that life, here and hereafter, has to be full and green and ripe
—- but, what is this “ripeness”? When I am told to go after Frederic Jameson’s Postmodernism than communicate, pray and/or study am I not as vacant as the policy of freedom that tortures Free Speech and decorum without, as a person clearly stated,  an agency of my own, a privacy, propriety, property, proficiency and practices that are my own?

each ideology popular in this era feels dry as the carcass of consumerism — I saw that I was afraid to tell who I was ,for a Muslim is to exploited and hurt like muslin; kept only as an objectification but not any skill or talented principles of Soul and Thought and Life. It is hard to be coloured too when Whiteness and Fairness is the metaphor of absolute salvation, absolving, solutions, clarity and ablution; even if White is beautiful as the clouds the clouds
that are rainy are a bit coloured thus can we only say one is good and the other bad? Can a Manachaeistic or Cartesian lifestyle really only elaborate all that this world keeps in its belly and breath?  Binary matter only matters when it can be cyclically contextualized and understood deeply as not only oppositional  and complementary but rather in some cases two roads leading to the same river or tree for we incorporate a “Yggdrasil” as a metaphor for a branched leveling and connotative deduction of a world both suspended in space but also engaged with it.

the world being flat may have just been layman tongue for a ground waiting for plants to grow and seeds to be sown and plucked and discovered. In a world subtracting metaphysics and multiplying the material the greenhouse is flat is layman tongue.

I have said many things. I have done  a cathartic crying or weeping if you may say to avoid alliteration fallacy or fondness. I am a scribe to myself as each person is to themselves — so even if history erased the journals-memoirs the psycho-emotional historiography will eliminate its own manufactured extinction. ▬

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….

Enter Comment here


I wonder what most people are doing now. I myself am a bit active in my blog but those who usually read me have not said anything about my recent work so I am truly wondering if they hated or disliked anything. I do not mind criticism as long as its fair. We might have stylistic differences maybe some of our grammars might be different but a good opinion as in well written even bashing my writing it or being nice to it is hard to come by so please by all means tell me what you are thinking about.

And this is not only about my writing. I am curious to know what my regular readers are doing. Are they busy? Are their lives busy? Are they too busy in their own writing? Of course, lives are busy but I want to know how — are you guys doing any university courses? Are you guys doing any new kind of job? I really want to know what you are up to.


I am a newbie to life
life hurts too much at times
with its rambling engine and corsetted concordant gears
I am not merely accompanying it in machine tones and terminologies
but as I am a reluctant functionalist; I find my heart weary and my brain and lungs wearier

and the homeostasis of my intellectual and sexual corpus is put on hiatus against
a grain of solitary cogitative indolence ——- hyperglossia in tandem with monotony
breaks against waves of wasted salt; transfat and filth accumulated in layers around the spine
interferring with the interflow and intermission of lovely, useful stimuli —– simile to a contagion
and there is that useful gasp that we have when we break out of drowning water; episodic metaphors
here and about telling me that as I was, for the lack of better circulatory  functionals, asphyxiated
it is good I got out of it  —- human interactions are important too thus this feeling of release requires
something akin to the gleaming hotness of humans which objects gather but cannot really replace

well, I do know this —- there are lamps that I have, books and masks that I have collected
but I will lose my marbles if I think that they are the only intimates and that they are by themselves
a great arc of pretty things —- I know that lamps need nimble fingers and so do books; an artefact is named
so for the palms and bones have grazed them and they are ceased to be lonely traps of unmeated mammals

so, what does a newbie do? I am afraid I am just new in the equation or rather so
aware of it this exsanguation from which I suffered from before that it is incredulous
to think ami bhule jabo and that will be the end of it, cogito ergo sum did not begin or end thinking
rather death has not also. A neophyte to life can probably mutter a few letters but writing long ones
are still challenge prone so let me get this —- life is not only a graph blimp that charts ack-ack high
and goes on a murderous low —- shall I only think that a retirement home is the advent of life’s pinnacles?
so, I had sex and maybe seen some genetic signatures on that but what does that do? I cannot retire.
have I retired from breathing? From seeing the settings suns? Feeling the marigold warmth of moon as it
sizzles as a freaky steak on that juicy oil lathered frying pan of a night? As soon it becomes a cushy lettuce of a sun
pops out to be made up in a blue salad of a sky? —- yes, call the youths and young ones and let’s see if they work the pearl
necklace of a lunar-starry sky or ate the cotton candy sensations of the day; muddy caffeines stick on their mouths like bad lipstick after a gouty kiss.

life, just wears chronology as underwear, wired bras and extra elastic jockstrap to seem more idyllic endowed
to feed oneself a hashish and go eesh how do the cows go pasturing in the fields of pasteurized love
life is more than breathing and eating and daydreaming of that high rise office in the middle of urban nowhere
it isn’t always the murky streets and icky cigarette tongs with their skilled voyeurs and oozy flirtations with cancer
with the foreign fair guy lighting up a tea-glass on the spirit of off with the cups (no bra pun really intended)

life is a cloister, cellular, cranial, clitoral —- ball sack included; it can be a great vapour of lusts and demolishing the hurricane of patented hypocrisies that engage you only as arbitrary mood of blank bovine stares in some corporation office judging you for your funky nailpoilsh partnered together with a turttleneck and non-tight pants which made you non-labeled and harder to deal with because then thinking twice of slut shaming and well the other decanters of abuse —- but you are not the Anglo Saxon Wasp and that proves the racial dilemma again because though a rainbow is promoted; rainbows are easily digested by other light plays and are not always visible in the air so you can say that as people do not want it around so they like it as a particular of bad weather.

there is more or less a prep for a newbie and the expert may tell you suck then but you must endure because you are a newbie thus
conveniently censored —- newbies are new to life, their pulses may glow soft but their hearts need, feast on adrenalin, they don’t want to vacated out of their own bodies put up foreclosure signs and have the bank of your names and classifiers come and bulldoze them into stampeded marks out of a bad movie (preferably animated for some satirist effect) and then what will be a newbie if not a sycophant and a loser born to be just housing for some nuclear test site —- or some countercoup in a company unprepared for colonization in the form of coalition which translates simply to cold war

ummmm, here I am a newbie not entirely sure what the world is but entirely eager to know; I’ll jostle and jump, sulk and salivate, seek and saunter, sexualize and animate my body parts for my own directory and database; thank you for taking me to this boring masquerade party but I like walking out in my own face and not feel that the shadows on the walls are just highlights of the evening._—–