forgotton, write

I have forgotten how to write; I borrow from words of favourite authors or poets, online, offline, in print — I stalk, in a friendly way, the vocabulary emitted by friends in the ozone as my side of the world looks at needing patches of effusions on that crystalline-dark matter of a magically scientific field that puts us under some other feelings like the six degrees of separation; I lust after knowledge, under both the labels of the arcane and the modern: a suddenness makes me me feel unhappy, a preparation makes me unhappy.

I have forgotten how to write. So I look at wordpress pages, tumblr posts and reblogs and quotes to feed this appetite in me whose parenthesis seems to be only craving but non-sustainable; my eco-green planning turning to urbane shanty — I look for verdian pots in fanfiction oeuvres and cul-de-sacs of myself and others. I read old work of others, and new, revisit old haunts and seem to find new. I write fanfiction myself because a novel is not for me now though a fanfiction with my own ideas is writing especially if the story of the original is filled with ambiguity (fanfiction on all genres, shows, formats is writing even if it’s 50 shades of practice).

I have forgotten how to write. That is poem seems so bad. I am sorry if I am not witty. But I have never truly boasted intelligence unless it be boasted for me. And all the mathematicians and physics majors and physicians and doctors and lawyers and engineers whose crafts matter more than mine I wonder how in that quantum googolplex do my profession really counts? To the modern mind I may be dumb and pretty obsolete like a cartographer sailing seas using the stars when there are radio shacks and lighthouses on a whimsy. Yet I cannot be a cartographer for the moon, for that would probably be a cartographer for billetdeaux.

I have forgotten how to write. Yet I imagine faces of the moon as one large phasic typewriter. And somewhere along Mars neophyte water sprites may be becoming molecules for new, imaginary oceans.▬

Perhaps, I have forgotten how to write…▬

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…▬

curbing, curbing, curbed, curbing but not cubed

this rash is fixated on my bottom; not an erotic sentiment yet it is sentient
to all the boils that festered and raked in some acute understanding of betrayal—
shall I laugh at your consternation? shall I plead be weary of my errors? shall I love
you? — no, I think for a moment I cannot love so freely and with so much happiness
of some resolute lethargy as before. My annoyance is particularly aimed at your abuse.
You manhandled more than any patriarchy shall for your matriarchy recedes and brandishes
slaps and punches at any criticism; you wished to be a bejeweled emperor and force me
to be ever groveling and kneeling audience even if my bones fails and my knees scald and scarp
you want to be idolised and galvanised as a perfect human as God could ever make — I spit on
your throne and God spits at it too and you, you narcissistic coop pigeon of shameful torment! — you have
no will and no wisp to torture the oppressor that is why my innocence is to be flayed and gutted and
displayed not as a uncensored lamb but as a roasted, half-fucked pig whose gelatin fat drips
and drips into a pork parody. I do not know why you flare and abuse me but I know that I do not
take this so kindly and in kind you must have yourself roasted for abuse is the action that is always
a pig in a shit pile. ▬

Feelings of people

 

are simply complicated at most oh also complexly simple
a harsh “no”, an adamant “no” sometimes the same
sometimes you are either meant to know or scrapbooking
these little leaflets of greens, blues, ivy greens, browns, oranges,
reds and other things and mush them up  to form little coloured
sprays on a poster pound sheet.

then of course there is abandonment for the feeling of abandonment
pushed and cracked and crevice linked and rupturing an immodest spleen; why is people ignore you to death? Do they believe their ignominy is the sovereign last mark, last seal, last virus blob on to the cotton exclusion that is your body ? Why not cotton candy the soul
and wire it with remembrances? I am not disposable as dust for even dust kisses the moon’s anatomy.

Now you wag your evil intent that even makes dogs upset
and cats feel ashamed of their cleaning and I am trying to grapple you in some mental chart are we taught algebraic entices and calculaic systems to dot some matrix of people’s hearts; or is it sometimes just brainwork like a pitcher plant gaudily florid attempting to get some heavy bee land on it? I never said I knew the geography of the feelings of another — it’s atlas needs constant updating and like geoprag-pulse they don’t always wait for desperate humans when they begin hurricanes and Tsunamis and I am meagre in the size of cataclysms. I am upset am afraid…let me have some tea.▬