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Adonis Yerasimou Apr 2020
He couldn’t take his eyes off of his living room’s mirror.
His own reflection was staring back at him.

Mesmerized by his self’s own image-re-presentation as he was.
Wanting to see himself through an-other’s perspective.
Desiring to be seen as somebody else.
He went on to become one with the famous imago.

In an endless arms race, an endless metonymy, drifting as it is called,
He tried to achieve the unachievable.
He tried to attempt the impossible.
He wanted to do the non-doable.

Always, from a young age, feeling inadequate and insecure.
Because he deemed himself incapable of stretching his own existence,
To make it fit with the family’s ideals.

So he spent the rest of his life trying to be recognized as something.
As something which he wasn’t at all? Yes. (How tragic. How sad.)
That left him with nothing but rage, hopelessness and despair.
A bipolar marionette of somebody Else’s deadly painful pleasure.

Powerless as he was, he went on living while construing ******* solutions.
So that he could just "get by". A coward hiding behind somebody Else’s wants.
And then one day having said to everybody, everything that made him upset, he left this place.
He never came back.
Akemi Feb 2018
holdover from the air cools bitter awash of dark and a turning horizon without centre. where i entered an empty frame across distance and skin like smoke. ive been having nightmares of cosmic terror a sublime loss of control like paper tearing in the chaotic drifts of broken eddies and other everyday things an inward open mirror a sunlit line wavering to heat disintegration dispersal erosion and death. ive been reading uncanny fluctuations in the sign of things in a power too great and sparse to comprehend overwhelmed by haunting finitude as time veers into collision and the fleeting panic of yesterdays blood. i find myself shaking at the thought of contact the electromagnetic law of repulsion built into the fabric of my flesh eyes turned away like a promise all language from dead stars. dragged along these orbits my skin trembles and i am hateful. faces blur in passageways half-lit rooms smudge across the surface of my memory until i see nothing but the colour of what was tightening the cords of my ribs stumbling inflexion. in the precession of traffic light blurs through my sleeve and i realise i was invisible all along and that i did this to myself and that nobody can help me and that i did this to myself and that i will retreat further and further and further because if it hurts to be abandoned it hurts more to be approached and misunderstood. the masks the words the acts the plays and beneath it all fear cruel mounting hopeless wretched fear eyes turning fingers running over and over until they break the lines of my face a *******. i turn the clocks upside down. i take the batteries out of all my electronic devices. i break the locks on my door. only then does morning come.
we fear the silence because it signifies nothing eyes turned in the moment of contact the nauseating fear che vuoi what do you desire what do you ******* want from me slippage between words and words and words endless barrage what do you want what do you desire without origin arising at the edge of chaos between being and nothing what do you eyes turned to the wall fingers fidgeting no purpose no purpose no end
Akemi Aug 2017
canvas creep blown split idiot boy
like amber fell
che vuoi? che vuoi?
haunt me, **** me
jouissance? jouissance. jouissance? jouissance. jouissance? jouissance. jouissance? jouissance. jouissance? jouissance. jouissance? jouissance. jouissance? jouissance. jouissance? jouissance. jouissance? jouissance. jouissance? jouissance. jouissance? jouissance. jouissance? jouissance. jouissance? jouissance. jouissance? jouissance. jouissance? jouissance. jouissance? jouissance. jouissance? jouissance. jouissance? jouissance. jouissance? jouissance. jouissance? jouissance. jouissance? jouissance.
Akemi Mar 2017
belated coward on the step
shot break of dusk
twilight receding into concrete
packed on the alley wall
cigarette ash and the suffocating mist of
a lurid breath

in a dreamlike wake
time collapses
caught in the hybrid space of
ambivalent mimicry
a traumatic double which morphs recognition
into terror.

you smile
i slip into
La Frontera
and learn to hate
you can't spell desire without ire
haha, i am so witty
i am doing a media studies degree
someone **** me
bleh Mar 2017
the heat infects everything, muggy rain batter churning through murk

i close my hand and
   cut the fingers on the lip

  we left the forms on the third floor, which
is the fourth floor, really, english standard  i
  always forget that

the generator hums
  they're     doing something with the piping
     sounds like drills
        but probably isn't

we had to close up early when the vents broke and
   water gushed all over the computers, washed away the paper screens, we were
  told to vacate, but I just stand, you
                in baby blue  slacks, poke me   but i’m too busy  
staring at my bleeding hand

the envelope was addressed here but i didn’t recognize the name,
no, wait, the other; it was to someone
         i knew but
                                         not from around here, i   think

   there is much     and i

fall,  though cushion and sponge
          big eggplant river

              remember when you were eighteen months and you ran and fell into the mirror? under a deep conviction that that was how you passed through, into the image beyond? but instead you just saw it shatter, and it gashed your arm up all the way up along the metal hinge? still have the scar, right? nowadays you don't trust reflections; you're always instead looking for that jagged lip, that latent violence of the edge, it's
   probably a good attitude, really

in the mirror    shattered birds,
               break their necks on  bad design  
too pathetic for tragedy
   don’t worry, we’re all self-hating narcissists here, you’ll
feel right at home-
     chuggin  on woolf and plath
           only seek wisdom from self willed death
       it’s an indulgent bias
             but the living are all such ******* suits, man

  just, look, how
        they are speaking, now, in a row, a flat screen, projected, and words filter out. the faces are blur, the words are static,  but the form is discernible. accusations. charges. prosecute; indite. plaintiff paper wrung. burn the body and pin it to itself. axiomatized sin. society as the codification of a hatred too bored to sustain itself.  i ask for a glass of water, but the words only form wheeze through the strain. Quiet. Your turn to speak is later. i'd run away, but i'm invested now. gotta see how it ends. the screen retches on. do you recognize this letter? i ask, but the words are wheeze-

sorry, sorry, i know, even if it's all about you, i'm just carrying on about-
           do you-
                        do you prefer to just embrace it?  wear it out, burn it all up at once?
     the repulsive husk at the end is just confirms that there was something prior, after all. death is affirmation as well as negation.
         or           do you prefer to hold it close, hide it away in dark spaces? i mean, that's fine too. a candle rarely lit never burns out. and only a few flickers are all you need for a wax seal; to drip your mark over sheathed words-

        maybe it's the smell. it was sent from my hometown, after all. the name was never important, but the winter and coal. The olfactory of old factories. sorry. i know, but i couldn't resist  
                         how we'd

we'd laugh in silence,
moths flooding through broken glass,
bodies only figured
       as sparks in orbit
     against the amber light
     all too light
light light
  and colour.

weightless as paper
               a paper weight,   wait-
   thrown through a window?
no,   too
                 long ago to recall

  the post office says they'll take it back to the sender. they can retry, repeat. it'll find it's way from there. it's okay, your responsibility is over; hand it over, leave your body at the door. as long as it's still sealed; as long as the envelope's not too frayed to cut, it's still good enough to exchange. interchangeable.   i run, still clutching  

  and   they,     funnel us out,
river down the concrete stairway,
  those echoing closet tones,
to the street below,
  and stare back at the mess, they're
   putting out cones,
                       and handing out ponchos,
for the typhoon rain of summer bare

and- and that's it. so what do you do? it's not entirely rhetorical. what can you do? do you
   scrawl a note, explaining yourself -everything this misplaced message became to you,- over the outside, and send it off? forcibly insert yourself into the conversation? and just, imagine, project some understanding, some insight, that they'll get from it, that you provided?
    just break the seal? you can't open it, can you? it was never meant for you. hell, what answers would be found there, in words for another?
  but   perhaps-
    perhaps   there are secret codes; messages, not in the words themselves, or the letters, but only to be found and understood by the eavesdropper, the guilty. that outside, absent third party, on the boundary of it all; just gazing in, standing there, speechless, beyond the mirrors glare

      but that's just fantasy

or, perhaps, do you prefer to just throw it all away from the get go; define yourself purely around the sense of loss? in the end, that's fine too. but just remember, for better or worse, even misery has diminishing returns

   i mean, that's all there is, right? in the end, we just keep on going, until we don't. it's all the same; read a letter, burn a letter, send a letter. but, even if eros and thanatos are twin faces, ananke is still out there, on the edge, poking their cheek
Stanley Wilkin Apr 2016
The darkness fled before me
While I stayed in the light
The black covering both land and sea
Destroying sight.
Basking in the heat, burning in the sun
We toasted the darkness, once it had gone.

God had said, wringing out his curls, ‘let there be light’,
Clearly, the dark came first.
But god floundered at night
And darkness he thunderingly accursed.
It was sent temporarily away
While god fashioned ‘Day’.

Yet, the dark was firstborn
The preferred planned child
And visually undernourished and presciently worn
Was the expected, the ideal, not the reviled;
Day was only a change of mind
God, the twister, making us see when we are blind.

It was of an infinite hue, purple not black
Deepening towards the centre, consuming everything
A materialisation of Lacan’s Lack
Without substance, pleasure or pain.
It delved in and out in senseless monotony
Heightening sensation here, there performing a lobotomy.

At times, it reflected me and then it reflected you
Assembling features, and reassembling,
But never with every ****** nuance true
It shuffled several, naturally dissembling,
Unable to be fixed. It pretended to be human,
But like you and me, it shuffled like a golem.

Flying away it came back with equal velocity
Opening its imagined maw
Emitting as it approached tongues of electricity
Through time it tore.
Past and future congealed into a putty-like mass
Dying with the light, it disappeared up my ***

— The End —