Thursday, March 28, 2013

The Need for abstinence


I’ll stop by sometimes. That, I can promise.

Of scandalous smoke and misty words, I know little and I’ve decided to stay that way. Of nothingness and its paradoxical substance, I come to know more every day. The void inside me (or is it the other way round), compromisingly voracious that it is, ever taking in one more round of foreign smokes and words, and one more round of domestic analysis, never filling though, is punctured here, rusted there, and so when you fire a storm into me in one of many wrong directions, it leaks sometimes and that isn’t my call. I wouldn’t go so far as to blaming the navigator because if you’re not rowing your boat somewhat smoothly, it doesn’t mean the entire tide is your fault; but I dare go as far as to say that you shouldn’t sail in a kind of sea that you’re not ready for.

So hell yeah, I’m dangerous. You can’t just bump into a person like me walking with this void and shake hands just for the fun of it. This black hole I have that happily devours things, trash or gold, every time you feel like disposing a sin or protecting a secret, is spinning every second of its own existence, unpredictable in its manner, searching for something to settle for, a meaning that’ll nullify the emptiness, a tangible proof to convince itself of the importance of insanity that will stand for itself when I’m occupied with handling the periodic fits of convulsions, and it does not come with an insurance like it’s a bank deposit or something. You can shake hands with me, no problem; come to think of it now, it’s a necessary distraction for a while, but you can’t sign a deal with me. It’s not often that it rains simultaneously in two different worlds and it is only when it does, that we understand how the other one feels; at all other times, it’s just out-of-line conversations and empty sympathies. And such things provoke the dark knights in my empty empire and sometimes they even draw out their rusted swords, not just for the fun of it, but with the acumen that a na├»ve nothing is way better than a shitty something.

So let me admit myself to my own what is still a Montessori.  And I understand your concern but with time I’ll build a school that will educate every twisted thought I have and will have, not a private asylum.
I’m not being so much as adamant as I am being careful but until I find a meaning, I’ll just stop by. For a while. Too much of me isn’t a good idea.

Until I do, Good-bye.



Thursday, March 14, 2013

The Menu



There’s a long list, it’s you who picks. The ingredients, the freshness, the garnishing, you judge from the looks of it. You pick and spend some time with it, and decide how often you’d like its company. (Don’t get carried away by the complementary drink alone. You don’t always get it and that’s no reason to complain.)

But everything I am stuffed with may not be exactly what you are expecting. I hope you’ve heard it too; how they say that everybody is a little bit of everything. Without mentioning the percent composition, they say so to misguide you to thinking that a particular thing could be something else, if it may please you, provided it’s given another chance, which isn’t to say it isn’t true but which isn’t to imply that that very something won’t be another race of different the day after tomorrow either, for if a little bit of everything is involved, every saint and every sinner; every dog in it will get to live a day or a moment at least.

So promises of tomorrow are a disrespect to the day after tomorrow.

That’s why it’s important to give truth a chance, and excuses a retirement.

And that’s why a repetition is a necessity. What is on display may not be everything that I am, and even more importantly, vice versa.

PLEASE TRY AT YOUR OWN RISK.



Tuesday, March 12, 2013

The New Evolution



“Who are you?” asks the Spider to the Spiderman.
“I’m Spiderman. I’ve got super powers.”
“Who are you?” asks the Spider to Spiderman, again.
“Your descendent.”
“Shut up. But how come you’re more popular than I am, if you are just an exaggerated imposter?”

“Because the world today takes a better liking to phonies,” whispers Spiderman.

The Process and The Color



I like to believe what’s melting is ice and ice is just water, certainly not what you paid for. And I know it’s not the case, unlike how you don't know what I’m selling is my own truth, certainly not what you’d expect on sale.

Because it seems as though the trick is in the cream, and though I don’t like it when you call it flavor, I’ll work on my translation skills accordingly. I’ll probably go through it again and picture myself as the apparatus and you as the temperature. But help me, how do I know what’s the threshold for the glass the apparatus is made up of, for though my insides are readily vulnerable, I’d need to keep my form?

One scoop out of refrigeration isn’t exactly a sin, it’s a destined cycle. So it isn't fair that it gets mocked when it’s in a transitional phase as if it’s always going to be weak and leaky. As if it won’t cross the bridge and get to the other side. 
(Especially when you’re the one who’s more concerned about the form I’m contained in.)

The point at which it melts isn't exactly the answer you should be working on when what I’m asking is when it ceases to exist. So tell me when did I become someone else?

Jokes for jokes


1. The polarity

A ruined rendezvous, you say
The rain, hurt, now disappears.

I’d let my umbrella remain inside the bag
I hope you know whose side I’m on.

It’s too big and so you rule it out,
But Blue is the blindfold

No more curses will do,
Leave past be.


2. The fool

I stretched and swung my hands around
Flirted back with the rain drops
And I secretly thought;
I gave a spectacular show,
Like in the movies

Little did I know about your secret ridicule

And now that I realize
How little you know about reacting to the unexpected
I wonder who the bigger fool is


3. The memory

The road was black and dry,
Zebra cross kept calling my name
And I ran to it, across it
From one planet to another
And nobody will ever know where it rained

And the weight of the eyes can’t crush me now
Because memory can be masked,
Trained and recycled
into something else
Because I can make up stories

Leave my lies be.