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.—

How friendship is a “non-friendly” babushka doll concept

The french word “Être” is a multitudinous organism. It has multiple applications but it’s general English meaning is “to be” — yeah, despite French’s concreteness which is shared by many languages the word “to be” is as flexible as the circumflex across its head. The French poet, Andre Breton, had written the poem, The Verb To Be, with all intentions, to talk about the multitudinous ways he feels despair. I am not one who clings to despair much. I think that life is meant to be lived. Hope is important, more Être than despair. This does not mean I do not have periods of despair or mock and condescension those to whom despair is known.

What to me matters is that like the verb “to be” friendships are “to be” as zigzaggy and slopey as that circumflex carrying verb. Friendship is a noun. It has its adjective and its verb. Yet it entails a concept that is not always concretely defined. It needn’t be nor should it be for each person has a flexible way of being friends. However, friendship is more difficult at times  than romance and love and erotic engagements. I finally understand why people say it is hard, genuinely so, at times, or maybe forever, to be friends with a lover or spouse. Not that it’s impossible or non-probable. But maybe their friendship styles are not to them definable as successes or things they enjoy all the time.

Friends have a license to be  at times inordinately insensitive, narcissistic, self-centered and rude. Of course, your good friends won’t really be this all the time or maybe never. You can’t manage a relationship of the romantic/erotic/love sort with those qualities. Not that romantic relationships are dishonest. They are not designed to be dishonest either unless you make them so. It’s just in those relationships humans automatically attempt to be the best they can be. And that is why love like that is prized.

In friendships we sometimes don’t make the effort. We do annex and arrest a person’s  threshhold of understanding. As in we can take advantage of it. This is “honesty” too just not of the best policy sort. Because we inadvertently do at times act pretty mean to our friends, feeling that their patience and love, will undoubtedly not create a rift.

This is to an extent understandable. It is why friendship encompasses the wide berth of empathy and sympathy. However, this is also someething that can get out of control.

We all love Joyce’s Ulysses and maybe even tamper Finnegan’s Wake. We also love Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway and Orlando. However, those too are given to syntax and grammar of its own that does thoroughly negate the necessity of a common language. The individual inflections pass in between those patchworks and thus a novelistic narrative of friendship  is constructed and maintained.

If you circumvent that your friendships will imminently, inevitably suffer.

It is both classical prose with neo-avante grande or postmodernist punctuations that make each friendship. Uniqueness cannot be discrete from all commonality and divorced from the lateral conceptions of attributes as caring and solidarity.

In the video game Outlast: Whistleblower, a prequel and interquel-paraquel of the game Outlast, the protagonist Waylon Park writes in a note that his wife, Lisa Park, had said that he was too “literal” and went for “if-then statements” — he with a lot of gravity realises that things are not like that. That becomes tautological almost. Though Waylon is a mathematician/mathematical genius of sorts I am not. However, I did share this propensity at times with “if-then statements” in certain regards.

It’s like  “attention+care=trust”, I was foolish to believe it would always go like that. People can be cruel or I can mess up and then not be forgiven. I forgot that “être” was around and that it was a free radical, a  morpheme, a part generative grammar borderlining the boundaries of didactical syntax. People are too complex and complicated. Both in good and bad ways.

Each friendship is like a babushka doll, unearthing each layer takes the pulley system of string theory (romance is also like that but I guess we also correspond to it faster).

This is both a beauty and tragedy of friendships.

Depends on the contexts, subsequent sequences or non-chronological chain of events.

Depends on the words you made known and unknown.

vowels

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.

Something about me

I attempt to be as honest as I can be.

I know this won’t sit well with many people. I know people may think something rude about me. For example, I honestly write about falling out with friends who may be 10 years my junior and many people may be wondering why make such a young friend. I grew up in a different era, there was no alarm in making younger friends as long as you stay respectful and respect their parents’ wishes and have them know play-by-play what you are doing (which I did). In my geographical context this is also not considered abnormal or anything taboo. I have also nieces and nephews around that age so I am accustomed to making friends with people younger than me. I also was a school teacher for a short time and I find that young people, not all but some, can have matured, refined opinions. It was a short stint because I needed to focus on my studies and because the corporate mentality of the administrators and their gross behaviour with teachers made me unhappy so I quit.

Also, I have made friends with people also like 70 years of age as well. Made pals with a man who was around 80 years old and passed away recently. If I had a falling out with one of them I would say so too. As I said for me the concept and the feelings related in friendship are not unusual because it has become, I have noticed, mainstream to think ill of people who make friends with people much older or younger than them. It is considered unsavory and at times implies something really negative and unjust. I am not like that at all. If I did something wrong and the friendship fell away it is because of difference of opinions or like a shouting argument not any actions to hurt anyone on any side’s part.

I think many people also do not like my poems because I am pretty honest about at times feeling sad or depressed or even feeling disillusioned. I know that people may not like that and I accept that though it does not put you on a soapbox to judge me. You can judge my work and you can only judge me when you know me some and see if my actions are bad. That is even true for you guys and me. I can’t judge you personally without knowing you guys personally.

A large factor, methinks, at the moment, that people may not be engaging with me — is that I am Muslim. Look, being Muslim and Non-White is not a crime. I have seen many people I  follow online bash Muslim philosophy and religion because something ISIS is doing. In my opinion, that is quite rude and ignorant. Can you stereotype all Christians or Jewish or Hindu people, etcetera as one people as in a state that all occupy? I think now I live in a culture that is similar to what Jewish people faced many years before. They were so ignored by top-class European countries and only Middle Eastern nations did not care about what their nationality and/or Faith was. I am not going to apologise for being Muslim neither do I think anyone, even in those times, apologised for being Jewish, Catholic or Protestant, and I am happy they didn’t. What terrorist groups do has nothing on me. Many ideologies, both religious and secular, have been misused by humans (example Communism and Capitalism) so I am afraid that those people are at fault not really the principles associated with that thought, religion or culture.

The reason I am writing this is because I feel people subtly may not be really supportive of me as a writer or as a person of such letters because they want to evaluate me on the same methodologies on what they consider just and right. I would be happy if you ask me straightforward questions and also ask me about what kind of person I am before you take that stance. There is no absolutist, universal scale of judging people always or even evaluating them so I hope that you can find in in your hearts and minds to allow me in for a while and give me space and see what I am really about.▬

slices of neuropathy

palms sweaty; elsewhere and nowhere, but present
like dashboard going full frontal; I am part in a fantasy
recollecting dreams and stories as I browse the now
crowded, the area is crowded, I am lost — but inside,
inside my head, I am always found, a telemetry of insides
labyrinths and poetry…of disjointed fanfictions, of graphical
video games thronging, picking throngs in my head,
a knight I am, or a maze runner, or a gunner, or something
liked and loved as extraordinaire, non-self-conscious, high on
adrenalin and confidence — a sceptered breath, or is it just
cell-divide, pseudo-mitosis, just a catch in all moment
of moves to supplant my feeling inadequate…

— and I had come for a job interview.▬

Not me (anymore?)

 

why is it easy to  curse someone; than to praise, a given context?
is everything a label of nothings except virile pessimism?
thinking about Ariel and Caliban — the two possibilities
the two thrones of thought; one a good worker other an obstinate self
were they not mirror images, true identicals presented as opposites?
when Ariel cooed, Caliban cursed and grew wings the better…both were
emperors of their identity; both have more control than they had pondered…
both are supposed to be more in a person than a dominant stangler —
when I think of my so called self and how people around define it
one tends to realize it’s  not fair, one wants to fight as a Caliban
but is told to be an Ariel  because that is best but the best support
to get rid of awful tags is a noble goal  — shamed as an individual —
detailed fake incompetence, you can’t be sexual, it’s such a shame
to have erotic goals or wants even if they are entitled in a marriage blanket
you can’t breathe without a small hair out of place facing criticism…

my confidence has been burned, bent and broken that even a rust tears for it
as a bag of inept charcoal shadows a person; outlines the paper mache of my
so-defined unclean heart which has been judged so much that it has forget and
had deigned to be numb and kiss tiny ennuis that face the truth of wounds and
abuses — massive as the great deluge, massive as the star-death, massively turning
on slits and not toes; not permitted to walk a zigzag or a straight line; I am nursed
by apathy and I am losing a balance that I once emitted. Each word a tear in my lung,
a scar on my heart a myopic damage to the brain. I am becoming self-conscious again,
becoming bereft from my own being…

— and you still want to captain this capsized vessel into oblivion, you treated me worse than
your dogs, your cupboarded cutlery and your enormous works of decorative art — I am a person
still and I will still remain a person; your acknowledgment doesn’t define me, your cruelty may expire
bits of me, in a smothered pillow way yet I refuse to asphyxiate, my dribbling, strangling, tongue still
write alphabets of me…▬

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…▬

If you could zoom through space in the speed of light, what place would you go to right now?

If you could zoom through space in the speed of light, what place would you go to right now?

If you haven’t known I have joined “writing 101” I  think I would also love to join blogging 101 too. But at the moment I am doing this. Getting inspired from nicholeq I decided to also write my entry on a memoir though obviously it is not really as heartwarming as hers.

I was pondering when I saw the question that maybe if there was a space to zoom into, maybe, an absolute zero in some outer space nebula I might choose that. I am strange as that. This may evoke an analysis, probably truly, that I am unsatisfied with the world. I am not really, at times I am, it’s just I feel that as time exists in fragments in space probably I could as light bends and time bends have a weird little intraconnected universe all to myself if I had done something of the sort.

Yet as I read the post twist I was wondering that presumably I won’t be able to describe such a place which is an inkling of mortality and a personally constructed, as in mental, nirvana.

Today’s twist: organize your post around the description of a setting.

So, I decided to vividly go back into a time when I was I think six or seven years old. I had taken a nap in a semi-dark room. The room was partly lit due to small square windows on top of the room. The larger window was curtained as not to interrupt a child’s nap. I was woken by my mother to eat. My eyes blurry I went into the dining room. The windows, large and unclosed, were sparkling with life. There outside Allah Almighty had ordained the sun to be warm and gold and it engulfed my little soul. The smell was warm. The food was inviting. The trees was bathed in warm and their green was on fire but not burning or hurt. They were the earthly angels and I was their companion. I think the feeling made me feel I reached a slice of paradise and made me love nature and the world so obviously I would love to go back to that blessed blaze and the clear blueness of sky and all that. The world felt a quiet yet alive and buzzing, paradoxical but true, haven and we were allowed to be part of it. No one was excluded. Even if we were all asymmetrical in sizes our symmetry completed and complimented life. My young soul was filled with that joy, unhampered, unperverse, of knowing love and life can so easily intermix and synchronize and be one, without artificiality, just organic and a wholeness that is a satiation to all laws implemented on the universe…Allah knows that is my space, my moment…my fossilized amber…a mirth in a moment that is both kaleidoscope and a harvest for my heart…

emotional hijincks

you tell me I stink with a beautiful tongue
your caramel saliva drips like a wasted candy
on some pavement of social disorder;

and you tell me I am picturesque shame;
colour coded in your coordinated flux of things that you’ll never do
like writing on a script on how you felt and how you feel
and to tell me to join the decipherable madness
of learning mute by viper, rattle -snake tongue
that shakes and shudders in an orgasmic fathom
taped to castration; sensor shun and censorship
are sometimes dining on the same plates

and you say I am a beetle and a mouse meant to be eaten
by an enormous snake known as public decency
I do not espouse freedom that entails minimization
nor do I understand how censoring my moods
erects a value system and says that publicity
is the hidden brood of licentiousness;
am I a fabulist wrought iron clad in bikinis and microtinis
and boxers and briefs and shame to me!
For what reason may I profess can you confess to shame me?

there is a fake piety that appears as much not needed piety
prosaic and dry tongued in its passionate speech
and poetic in its incineration that make Farenheit and Celsius go cheek to cheek
to get checked for the STDs that personal hatred triggers

then you want grass gutted lawns
and all lakeside traveling and the concrete world
has not taught you a definition of unfairness?
have your glass slipper not cracked while the stoning of you windows
your ball and your patience all came to a thunderous appaluse
how your defeat was given an orgy and your victories bedridden
and  you say beware the laughing and the laughs; has living away
from the wiry, weary edges of revelations made you any less comical?
your life a laugh they translated and your breadth a joke they thought
and you are worried about laughs; laughs are a pllague of death if
made to be as comical as ethics of war where a queen sizzles under
the brevity of drones. Don’t come with a kiss that enables a fist
make a fist and smash your Wall and build a ladder to meet me

I wanted to meet you. I badly did. At some points. As slivers of yellow
as the storm day proceeds but this sliver does not light you
I love the storm too but you decidedly needle-injected the vortex
the nullified eye of the storm. Happily pleasant as the deluge drowns you.

I was not meant to shame you, You have simply shamed yourself.▬

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 WordPress.org  much but yes it is more malleable than  Wordpress.com (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.