erasing pain

my heart has swallowed a large pitcher of sadness
pre-summer days quote in heat
and sigh in zephyrs like commas
in a run on sentence —

building up my bones like a house
or a locomotive; both nano and steam
evaporates through the lines
of osmotic transcendence

quiet was the night
adjusting the windows
as the rains come hot and sleek
like predators hunting for water
and my eyes thirst dryness
like a line smoothed by clay
my mouth antagonises me in silence
but I don’t turn the page —

what is a lost cause? I think trust
or trust blindly? a thrusting motion
reminds you of juvenile dreams and
naive conceptions — love sings over the hills
canopied by clouds and conceived heaven
love sings over the earth
only the desert welcomes the monsoon

if my heart was paper, would it be easier to write the codes?
to relearn myself in small accents like apostrophes and periods?

would it have been easier to write down some commandments
that never altered; set ink as stone and made it roll so it
gathered no heresy of moss? — shanties of sand come climb
and crumble but never swayed the reign of those staunch routines

automaton of apathy; pincushioned by wavy joints of empathy
never fully light or fully darkness: just a fruit with many seeds
like a rose with many thorns. Beauty is a trait that can defy kindness.
Why should I javelin throw my self when others watch the macabre
in a seated box in the opera of their own lives?

hearing something like rain fall down like it has pockets to fill
feeling partly tired and partly smarting from a wound
there is no chime that elopes with the blow to the heart

knowing the quiet I trace it like a scar,
a skin that should be immaculate
I sigh, whimper and whisper

the wall is broken; pain can’t keep me down.—

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.

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…▬

happy go lucky slut

 

it’s pretty obvious; that I am being jerked around
incomplete personified in an empty parched void
rambling on as the rabble-rousers succeeds
in gaining sympathy while I am scrapped and feed on scraps —
I am not a marionette of maternity or paternity blues
I do not menstruate or ejaculate to toss and turn in fetid sleep
while you, an interloper, a declared outside-sheep prey on
wolves and grass and get away sheepishly into some day or night
or fray and I pray to God Almighty for a save because it is excruciatingly,
lucidly simple that I wish to tear the throats of all the so-called clean I had
for when it so clean it shines and blinds and then no one puts you on a chair
you are a deemed ascetic and put on a stool so that you can put on crap and
pleasantly smile into an abyss solidly crafted as a wall and a hard place; rocks
substituted teeth of yours that you gnash in an accumulated pattern on passive-aggression.

I do not lie, I was happy to help, to love, to hug —
but you made it less by taking the notice of it as a half-full, half-empty gesture…▬

virtually pals

there is a nothingness between us; a waxen taxing affair
of where friendship was and never was — just mere interaction
when you waned me with your tears and waved me into a corner
I had sought your forgiveness trusting that maybe forgiveness was
all that was to be needed — forgetting that you had never understood
that if it was something I strained I never meant to and I never abused
never hurt your heart, your face, your eyes or any integral you —
realizing that you had never attached me to these but I am -was – just a flicker
of pixels amounted to an image that raced away in the rat race of virtual acquaintances.▬

(9) Alcoholism: What is it like to be an alcoholic? – Quora

(9) Alcoholism: What is it like to be an alcoholic? – Quora.

The answer by Karen Opas and Geoffrey Walton really hit home. Don’t let alcohol control you.

Karen Opas:

I could drink a lot (comparatively) without showing it. At 15, I was at a bush party where a girlfriend was raped by her date–she was so drunk that she couldn’t fight him off–and I remember judging her for getting so drunk, rather than sympathizing….So I was able to tell myself that I didn’t have a drinking problem. When I started university, I got a part-time job serving tables at the bar where the CFL and NHL players partied. Once again, my drinking and drug habits seemed pretty normal. I dated a player (who would later be booted out of the league for his coke use) who liked that “I could keep up with him.” I told myself that I didn’t have a problem with drinking because I only drank when I was with other people, so I was a social drinker. REAL alcoholics drank alone–but I had groups of “friends” who lived by different clocks. I could always find people to drink with.

Sometimes people ask me if I couldn’t just have one glass of wine, how do I know that I would have the same problems with booze after all these years? I usually answer with this, “If you could play a slot machine that might reward you with a small payout, say $20, but the wrong combination resulted in your right thumb being chopped off, would you do it?” Nobody’s ever said they’d play those odds. And neither will I.

Geoffrey Walton:

A career (stellar ascent; catastrophic climax) later I was back in grad school, hiding. So I married “Her,” because her life was so wonderful it couldn’t help but fix mine. Didn’t work. She spent three-plus years telling me she would “do anything to help me get sober,” but eventually her boyfriend told her she was wasting her time, and they left, together. I think they are still married, probably happily.

haven’t had a drink in a long time. I’ve buried both my father and my mother, married a woman I thought was love of my life, fathered two sons, changed jobs, filed bankruptcy, and recently divorced my boys’ mother because an old friend of ours is, it seems, the love of HER life. I get up in the morning and get my boys ready for school; I make their lunches, fix their breakfast, and make sure they are dressed, shod, clean, and combed. Then I walk them to school, kiss them, and go to work. We do homework together, play Wii games, and build Lego’s. I was there at each of their births; I cut the cord both times. They are the greatest joy of my life, despite the absence of their mother. And I don’t drink, no matter what…

What is it like to be a recovering alcoholic: miraculous

 

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….