Drawing images using some words
Telling some stories that are unheard
Stealing the moment, freezing the time
Killing the beast that vultures the mind

Spilling blood, the pen is our knife
Collecting traces from this mysterious life
Connecting dots to create a line
Polishing stones to make it shine

Our words are riddles, a must to decode
Giving multiple key for them to unload
The meaning of some could make readers insane
If wrongly unlock it will conquer their brain

We are a shape-shifter just like the cloud
Painting angels and demons to enlighten the crowd
Hoping they’ll listen to our joy and our pain
Wishing they’ll get the lesson of our every rain



11/03/2015
Mysterious Aries

poet, or philosopher, it doesn't really matter which is which, or whether the two are indistinguishable, notable in the former scenario, when someone has an eclectic bounty of interest is simply not love-scorned or love-nostalgic, love-idealistic, does it really matter? i was once called a philosopher: a teenage girl said in third person (as if she was a puppet and some-thing was moving her tongue): 'talk to this philosopher'... not in that sarcastic way that philosopher is an misnomer or an abused term of: self-gratifying grandeour, it was quiet genuine, but: imagine my shock... i had an ambition in life, it was to perform a service to thinking: without doing as much as hammering a nail into a plank of wood, that's the ambition of any thinking man: to borderline on telekinesis or telepathy... that was Hegel's modus operandi, his categorical imperative... after all: ego is a metaphysical tool, while thought is its metaphysical canvas... the mere suggestion that a copernican inversion can happen in physics "contra" metaphysics... it's already apparent, any word can behave like a hand touching the sacred object / subject of transfiguration and become something else, even a misnomer can find itself given solace to the user... for now i've forged a belief in the ultimate: away from the absolute in relation to omni in unum - one first has to learn to think, before having to learn to feel... mind you, i don't like the current nietzschean inversion of the cartesian equation: (ego) sum ergo (ego) cogito... esp. among the youtube political commentators, too many examples to give: i'm a classical liberal, i'm a progressive, i'm a liberterian... i don't really like seeing: i am, precede i think... i don't even like the origin-argument of this inversion: i exist for the sole purpose of thinking... after all: i think prior to being, since i can also daydream and not be what my thinking suspects as a possible truth-outcome... that's the nature of the freedom of thought: i don't have to be what i think, i can find thinking to be a pleasure, when the senses do not offer me any pleasure derivative, e.g. eating can sometimes be boring, chewing, chewing, *******... i eat because i need to live: i don't live to eat... i really have under-appreciated Hegel, i should really visit my grandparents for two months and read the phenomenology of the spirit: i'm trying to replicate the saying attributed to him (verbatim), but i doubt that i will, i don't have the patience to sift through all the quotes, but it goes along the lines of: beware oh wordly man, to not be a pawn in a thinking man's game... hence my suggestion of philosophy entering into the realms of telekinesis and telepathy: you get to see things play out and people express the origin story, of your own memetic generation of the original idea... how are poets finally alligned to philosophers? good thing that i studied chemistry at edinburgh university: we return to atoms, words are no longer enough, sure, they are, contrary to the statement...  (why did i under-appreciate Hegel? ah... had my head stuck up heidegger's and kant's *****...

  integration? great!
but i'll meet you halfway...
    i'll eat your fish & chips,
your englush breakfast,
  i won't sing your anthem: god save the queen,
****** anthem, too short,
but i will whistle through:
the british grenadiers' fife & drum...
like i might through la marseillaise...
i'll meet you halfway...
i'm not a former colony member,
commonwealth,
   i'm not some ****- paying bribes
to the british powers
to join in on a world cup of cricket...
this is what happens when immigration
turns sour...
they either lesrn the host tongue,
or they don't learn it...
or they can't distinguish the two:
speak polonaise at home,
speak the hosts' sprechen outside of it...

   if the ******* aren't suspect:
by not being bilingual...
the arab beatles... jihadi john...
          ringo star h'ahmed...
  george ali...
                paul mecca rashid...
oh i'll settle for integration...
but don't you ******* think i'll give
up my mother tongue
for "c.c.t.v." close-ups back home,
home being my private lodge...
like ******* will...
  i'll speak your tongue in public...
but i'm not ******* former commonwealth
****- riddled with a need to play
cricket, "forget" my tongue in order
to compensate for olives
              and sun-burnt bananas!

a former colony ****-**** is about
to dictate the rules for fellow
europeans, on the tram-ride from
Birmingham to Nottingham?
seriously?
        but of course the englishman
will favor the former colony pet bush-monkey
from sri lanka...
since the brit can't really dictate
to a fellow european his superiority
complex... which he can...
with a petted copper skinned
toy-ting...
who brought 'im a korma curry!
nice one, ol' laddy...
        right on the plonker...
                 i'm not finished!
                        i'm just getting started!

gehirnablassen:

perfectly respected immigration,
given that so many english girls just love
the attention their **** minders,
sexually abused,
not really making it as nurses
or... ahem... karaoke superstars
worth the while of britain's got talent
or voice of britain,
or...whatever the ****** show was
that gave birth to one direction...

so a.... brain-drain? good immigration?
the best!

i can sit awhile by myself and count...
1. the sparrows,
2. the swallow,
3. the starlings,
   4. the crows,
5. the magpies,
6. the pigeons,
7. the woodland pigeons
(fatter, with dog collars),
8. kestrels
  (one is enough to begin
the count)...
9. the blackbirds....
10. seagulls... seagulls?! 25 miles from
romford to southend! seagulls?!
this far in-land?! fair enough...
11. a robin...
                   12. goldfinch...
i just sit and watch these birds
in my garden, i sometimes spot
a darting frog in the garden,
i'm more english than the english...
i actually enjoy owning a garden...
the "english" surrounding me
exemplify a bbq. as a luxury parade...
what's so luxury about marinating
some meat, and then grilling it?!
please! enlightend me!

    gehirnablassen...
                   brain-drain immigration,
the type asiatic tiger-mums brag about
at child olympics...
   for the required rubric stature...
******* mothers, basically...

1. χaron χaos - cha-cha-cha       khaos
2. theaetetus - so / ma   letters / syllables:
     graphemes: sz phi theta
      compound syllables (caron s) - Na (sodium)
3. music choice...
       brain damage perturbator ft. noir deco
    virga iesse floruit, gradual of eleanor of
britanny...
4. pride / stubborness (not equal to) honour,
tolerating islam is not the same
as respceting islam...
   german 19th century fascination
with islam...
     θought and φilosophy...
   greek in warsaw, giving him directions,
talks: sounds so much like spanish...
5. england a nation of singletons,
idiosyncracy... social pressures in poland
and even in h'america missing in england
to marry...

1.

chamaleon tongue,                    shape shifter,
bez akcentu w piśmie - więciej akcentu poza pismem
(trainspotting scottish), welsh, cockney,
east london altogether, pakistani english, etc.
e.g. rather, or raver, i.e. not rayver
(someone who parties at night on ecstasy pill)
but ra'ver, like verging on a new discovery,
it's not even the = ~v but is actually v...
english is a chamaleon tongue, you say 'nostic
when you write gnostic, i say diagnostic,
therefore say gnostic, you say 'nome, i say gnome,
as cf. with diagnostic;
then there's the case of the per se:
you say chamaleon - no kappa there apperent, eh?
but there's chappie, chap, chuckles,
no kappa in a millionth chance
to also say nough'ledge for knowledge,
a bit like that gnome of yours...
as i said before: a language without
a written insertion of stressors / distinctions
will produce a massive array of diacritical
stressors / distinctions outside the written format,
but it will also become as complex as to
allow adults with learning difficulties e.g. dyslexia,
and that horrid internet slang of shortcuts:
i ate my 8 when i was late for my disco date
with the cha cha cha melon.

p.s. if there's a hay patch at the beginning, the nasal flute
will ask larry 'the lynx' saxophone to hark it out with rasp
gritting of phlegm... but if it's somewhere else down
the piccadilly line... it will act like a nudist spy and resonate
less than expected; probably mingling with f, i think.

A shape shifter.
A transformer.
Everything you fear.
Change.

The unknown is
a scary place,
a scary thing.

Do you know who I am?
Do I know who I am?

Would someone please show me
which home is my place,
which family my own,
which lines I should trace?

Every contour on my face,
every word that I utter.
It is all you.
And that’s scary.

Why does it scare you?

Because I am a stranger, and your homie.
Your son, and your enemy.
I am all that you were,
and all that you will be.

You want to embrace me
as your child, your kin.
But I’m different, a little
too complicated to fit in.

You wish for things to be simple,
the son whose identity is set in stone.
So I travel these unbeaten paths alone -
As you close your eyes to me,
a child who barely knows part of his family.

I look to you to help define me,
and still you refuse to see,
even as your memory is stirred by me.

Your mind pushes me
to the back of your head
but your heart won’t let
you forget who I am,
and so I’ve grown,
the invisible boy,
soon to become
the invisible man.

Some days you simply wonder,
and life seems more an illusion, and
all those heavy questions drive
your mind into diffusion.

Your reason screams “yes,”
while your sleepless conscience
tells you otherwise.
So which is telling truth,
and which is telling lies?

As you struggle to pick,
you start to realize,
you’ve made a wrong choice -
a part of you died.
This choice about me
could never be wise.

So which shall you follow,
your heart, or your head?
Don’t be too quick on the take -
You might make a worse
nightmare of your bed.

To see the unseen
is a complicated thing.
Many have said that
with knowledge comes pain,
And I assure you that
seeing me has consequences.

So you whisper, “ok”
Your curiosity parched
For the knowledge that quenches,
As it tugs at your core,
A million tight wrenches.

I will see you
Is your tardy demand!
And a transient being
Lifts his transient hand.
Where this unveiling takes you,
You intend to land.
You’re facing your demons,
You’re being a man.

So who is behind
the mask, you ask?

It’s me,
An interracial boy.
A melting *** of culture, and color,
A child who won’t accept the word other.
Not molded from one sole identity cast,
Destined for eternity to sculpt my mask.

I always knew your biggest pet peeve was not being taken seriously, but here I am today mocking you. But if I say your hair is a mess, I really mean it looks unbelievably adorable when it curls up like that, just so.

And I know you could never be my chauffer, I know that now, and it isn't because we both don't even have our licenses yet. I'm simply coming to terms with the fact that I live inside of a bubble, underground, a million kilometers below sea level. And you are a shape shifter, only able to transform and transcend into creatures with wings. Maybe they don't all have wings necessarily, but wings could be a symbol for freedom, and they most certainly have that ability.

So one day you are a falcon. The next you are in outer space, being a creature that isn't even discovered by man yet. No matter what, you're still free. And I am still imprisoned.

You would think being inside this cell would teach me that no, you do not care what I think about your hair curling up at the ends, just so. And that yes, you are way too high above the clouds for an underground lady like myself. But I just never learn.

Perhaps the only way I will ever learn is when I find a new shape shifter. One who is not limited to beings of the sky, but one who can morph into anything. Maybe even a petite, rusty old key that can unlock me. And set me free.

And maybe, just maybe, that new shape shifter won't even have curly hair.

P.S. Please come soon.

you came, dragging
cardboard shackles in
your wake and fell upon
my floor like the final
messiah.

surrounded by these walls
that I built for you, and
the props that I live by;
a porcelain cat ticking
time on his paws, and
a blue fish swimming laps,

you fold into origami birds
and exhale debris into
the moonlight, sighing
a breath of defeat.

i cannot decipher it.
i remember how you looked
when you were mine,
how you spoke when you
belonged here.

you are strange to me now.
i cannot pinpoint your
watercolor edges nor iron out the
fissures where your smile hides.

i want to take you in my arms
and place you in my bed.
i want to play chopin from memory
for you and carve figures out of wind,
carry you across the threshold
on gilded fingertips;

but you are no longer
mine to form, and
i do not follow.

A Ghostly Moon Climbed,
Over A Thick Tree Line,
The Ground Was Covered With Mud,
Adreniline Swam Inside Churning Blood,
A Lip Was Being Bitten,
To Block Back A Scream,
A Story Was Being Written,
Even Though It Was A Dream

Green Eyes Turned To Gold,
Ontop Of Wood,
That Was Rotting,
It Was So Old,
Talons Ripped Through The Moss,
Her Heart Was Being Tossed,
Around In Her Chest,
She Wasn't Human Then,
But She Was At Her Best

A Sly Silhouette,
Crossed Her Path,
She Was Playing Russian Roulette,
But She Faced The Wrath,
She Layed On Her Back,
To Ask For Trust,
Piercing Her Neck,
Teeth Felt Like Tacks,
It Was Hard To Stay Calm
But It Was A Must

The Shadow Realeased Thy Grip,
But It Didnt Let Her Leave Without Blood Drip,
A Cut On Her Sholder,
Left A Scar,
One She Gained Underneath The Stars

She Woke With A Fright,
In The Early Morning Light,
Blankets At The End Of Her Bed,
A Red Hot Pounding In Her Head,
She Looked Down,
And What Did She See?
The Wound On Her Shoulder,
She Had Recived

I hoped to become an eagle
soaring above amber waves of grain
seeking perch in rarefied air

a red-tailed hawk,
or even a garden warbler
would have sufficed

instead I metamorphosed
into a mosquito and found myself
skulking on a fine lady's arm

I could only hope
she wouldn't swat me
before I drank my red full
and took flight into dusk

or returned
to my pitiable simian self,
lice laced and  homeless, hunkering
in a cold corner, wishing
I could fly

Explaining My Depression to My Mother: A Conversation
Mom, my depression is a shape shifter.
One day it is as small as a firefly in the palm of a bear,
The next, it’s the bear.
On those days I play dead until the bear leaves me alone.
I call the bad days: “the Dark Days.”
Mom says, “Try lighting candles.”
When I see a candle, I see the flesh of a church, the flicker of a flame,
Sparks of a memory younger than noon.
I am standing beside her open casket.
It is the moment I learn every person I ever come to know will someday die.
Besides Mom, I’m not afraid of the dark.
Perhaps, that’s part of the problem.
Mom says, “I thought the problem was that you can’t get out of bed.”
I can’t.
Anxiety holds me a hostage inside of my house, inside of my head.
Mom says, “Where did anxiety come from?”
Anxiety is the cousin visiting from out-of-town depression felt obligated to bring to the party.
Mom, I am the party.
Only I am a party I don’t want to be at.
Mom says, “Why don’t you try going to actual parties, see your friends?”
Sure, I make plans. I make plans but I don’t want to go.
I make plans because I know I should want to go. I know sometimes I would have wanted to go.
It’s just not that fun having fun when you don’t want to have fun, Mom.
You see, Mom, each night insomnia sweeps me up in his arms dips me in the kitchen in the small glow of the stove-light.
Insomnia has this romantic way of making the moon feel like perfect company.
Mom says, “Try counting sheep.”
But my mind can only count reasons to stay awake;
So I go for walks; but my stuttering kneecaps clank like silver spoons held in strong arms with loose wrists.
They ring in my ears like clumsy church bells reminding me I am sleepwalking on an ocean of happiness I cannot baptize myself in.
Mom says, “Happy is a decision.”
But my happy is as hollow as a pin pricked egg.
My happy is a high fever that will break.
Mom says I am so good at making something out of nothing and then flat-out asks me if I am afraid of dying.
No.
I am afraid of living.
Mom, I am lonely.
I think I learned that when Dad left how to turn the anger into lonely —
The lonely into busy;
So when I tell you, “I’ve been super busy lately,” I mean I’ve been falling asleep watching Sports Center on the couch
To avoid confronting the empty side of my bed.
But my depression always drags me back to my bed
Until my bones are the forgotten fossils of a skeleton sunken city,
My mouth a bone yard of teeth broken from biting down on themselves.
The hollow auditorium of my chest swoons with echoes of a heartbeat,
But I am a careless tourist here.
I will never truly know everywhere I have been.
Mom still doesn’t understand.
Mom! Can’t you see that neither can I?

Straight Shooter
with No Chaser
Tell me
No Lies
Kind of
Communicator.

Pom Pom swinging
Rah Rah singing
From the front
Back
Or Side
Proudly Cheering.

Spirit Lifter
Mood Shifter
From low
To high
With
On time Laughter.

If things get crazy
Or someone comes against me
You got
My back
Quick
You're my one man army.

My Partner

My Friend



©Tina Thompson

A quaint little shifter

From purple to green

He can hide and appear

So funny when seen

With beady weird eyes

And a look of apathy

Don't be fooled by it's demeanor

It's as cute as can be

I'm talking of a lizard

Can be small as your thumb

They can make me go silly

And shout '*** LOOK AT IT'S TONGUE!!'

But really, truly

I do love you


Mr. Chameleon