the token of love, vacant of meaning
the token of love, vacant of meaning
a non committal heart, ne'er sticks by
a non committal heart, ne'er sticks by
the token of love, ne'er sticks by
vacant of meaning, a non committal heart

ponds replete with lovelier lotuses, of enticing thrall
ponds replete with lovelier lotuses, of enticing thrall
shun none of them, attentive the mind is
shun none of them, attentive the mind is
of enticing thrall, attentive the mind is
ponds replete with lovelier lotuses, shun none of them

binding in love's genuine bow, doth require consideration
binding in love's genuine bow, doth require consideration
all avenues being toured, the right lady chosen
all avenues being toured, the right lady chosen
all avenues being toured, doth require consideration
binding in love's genuine bow, the right lady chosen

the non committal heart, doth require consideration
all avenues being toured ,ponds replete with lovelier lotuses
attentive the mind is, of enticing thrall
shun none of them, vacant of meaning
the token of love, ne'er stick by
the right lady chosen, binding in love's genuine bow

boasting of the god of love's attentions,
this magicweaver lures her prey--
conjures forth her whim
seeking quench of fickle thirst within
attempting avenues of guile
numerously failed, and baits another heart
to suit her object's mate,
whose favors hail from Shiva
unto dominion everywhere,
  except at forest hut where Rama--
with Sita --honeymoons in exile
having snapped the cosmic dancer's massive bow
to win her for his wife, yet bound
by family word to wilderness
  in elder-shade of mystic eagle
guarded by their builder,
brother Lakshmana, in whose absence Kamavalli comes
to woo the godlike archer for her own.

little bells on anklets ring--
from creeper snagged
as if in venery yearning,
urgent vines would find their way to rest on skin
and squeeze in verdant rooting underform
prancing by, playfully demure
to enter subdued greenery
of Panchvati's gated yard
to catch the stoic Rama's eye
in invitation flashing for his gaze:
a sculptured form of flawless grace
nubile teeth shining from the forest dark,
a smile unassuming of callipygean sway
beneath the flitting lashes of her iris' swell

baffled there he stirs to praise her openly
as perfect--
despite his inner-goddess-for-a-wife he keeps inside--
with tripping words
welcomes and blesses this new girl,
exalting her with blushing queries,
sylvan surging rush to know
interrogate her mystery,
rapt in wide-eyed wonder verging beatific breath--
but learning of her lineage...
begins to plot their deaths.

banter light,
flirtations with a hidden, cosmic weight to pun against,
his praise asserts its hold
pretending bachelorhood;
his kindly, transauthentic voice resists
and in a sympathetic, skillful tone, promulgates
a drama to entice her eager mind--
ironic fancies of domestic bliss
flow from Rama, subtle jests
become her plight obsessing
into darkness embered with her lust
to truly claim him as her love,
her grandiosity defused in simple
entertainment quipping of their castes
and then with sudden burst entranced in luminescent rays of stunning rustic glow
from cottage comes his wife to claim her presence known.

the blow is dealt: Manmatha lays Kamavalli's fate: to self-disintegrate

jealousy to deafen gods, in cave retreat
to nurse her spite, surrounded in a dance
of serpent flails to sate her woe,
and only feed in ouroboros knotslip pulse
a lump-filled throat of gulping incite forward zest salacious
pungent flare of earth identity of fang and blood
the cry to shudder down a wolfine howl
in blast of animal, from screaming womanhood
the swoon precipitate-- vast height, abysmal fall
on being spurned by one who led her on
into delusion wrapped in sham an alter self
she met in bed a thousand cravings razing sanity
into a hate for moon, for elements themselves,
railing at Manmatha's haze infernal globe within and out
projecting Rama's face transfixing her inept
in wracking convulse whine of every cell,
her being sweating out imagined arms,
palms of his to cup her, lift from hellish pit of stifled longing never known 'til volcanically regrown--
in new love's throws an innocence of honest
selfhood found in him, bizarrely enemied in Lila's
killing spree of ego-dolls of lotus costume tracing all
searching through his fresh phantasm for her quelling salve
his diamond ******* targets for her soul
his broadness engirthing her to moan until her last in ecstasy
unknown asura-brew untold invented only now forever lost,
the moment fondled vastly gone,
his chest but gossamer instead of flesh
the emerald shoulder glimmer fake
the boundless confidence exuded in his
tender skin's encapsulated sinew strength
merely thought on causing pelvic quake
repeating there an apparition for her nearly endless letting out
he comes for her a demon double of her making
demi-god creator-demon vision for her writhing,
abandoned to the ambrosia torment he provides
wailing at the cavern sky her prison boudoir den
enscaled with slither pile coat of snakes, masturbatory wake of swooning still again

through to dawn..
in which psychotic break decides:
Soorpanaka births herself anew--
possession of her goal, or suicide.
the dewy spectra shines reflection of the choice;
rave committal forms its mould--
exhaustion hatches colorspray of plots,
braving mutilation to abduct,
lies and bribes surmounting each before
in ****** propositions to her ever widened bed,
else demonic armies loosed,
infatuate Ravana's heart
with illusory snare of golden Sita's rumored wares
to get her man alone and hew derision
with her desperate charm, by cantrip or war
spawned from deeper lairs of a broken,
fallacious heart, toward matrimony
or destruction bent













.

I believe in destiny.
Sure I may come off as anti love and non committal but give me the chance to back my statements up.

I’m anti loving someone when you as a human with a beautiful soul cannot see the lighter aspects of yourself.
I’m anti loving another person when you can’t find love in yourself.
It’s somewhat painful and distasteful to want to receive a perfectly beating heart and give back uncertainty because you can’t love yourself.

I’m non committal because I see it in you.
Doubt, fear on what you could find to be true.
You shadow these thoughts and let them take over you.
You let the past of other people define what you see of me and treat me lesser than them.
I’m non committal because your heart is in lust and your soul is charred and blown to dust.

I believe in destiny.
I believe that in a world exists two or more of our soulmates.
I believe each soulmate is for each specific moment and that a specific two are for a more permanent mark.

Your first soulmate shows and teaches you exactly what your soul has been crying and screaming for.
Your second fulfills that underlying pressure the world has put on you about love.
But your second may never come,
Your first may never leave.

But stay believing in love that is yours and you will be okay.

Im anti love and non committal because if you search for these qualities But can never find them in yourself than that toxicity.
That is inhaling the green and spreading it to the lungs of another.

Have you not seen the love that they are portray?
All in it’s broken and incomplete manner.
How can I be so trustful when love doesn’t reside within ourselves first?

funerals are a form of menticide.  also, writers.  undead, I don’t mean to talk.  what I mean to do is approximately yearn.  for something nearby.  an old computer.  plugged in, cursor blinking, hell’s door.  for awareness.  priesthood.  box-cutter.  wayside.  what began as Franz Wright.  what became Lou Reed.

I've been sitting on the fence too long
Too long have I allowed myself
The luxury of not committing
Of simply sitting
Sitting on the fence

I must commit to something
Anything but myself
For I am too far gone
An untamed lawn
Filled with broken bottles

Left or right in or out up or down
Where do my loyalties lie?
Some days I want war
But an oath I swore
To be a pacifist eternal

When you don't want to say it in words, let your actions do the talking. And we're talking about celebrities' relationships here. It seems that the words 'we are just good friends' is also passe. Nowadays, even a selfie with your lovely other half says it all. So, while the media can hound the actors everywhere they go for that one quote to admit to their relationship, the B-Town folks choose to do it in their own style. Most commonly, they walk hand-firmly-in-hand to events, parties and premieres — pretty much confirming their 'couple' status. Recently, Salman Khanmade a grand entry at Preity Zinta-Gene Goodenough's wedding party with Romanian model/actress Iulia Vantur and everyone went into a frenzy. They didn't walk in hand-in-hand, but well, that day doesn't seem too far away. Though at a recent event, when asked about his marriage plans, Salman siad, "It's between me and my fans." Iulia too shared on her phto-sharing profile that she's "in no hurry to wear her wedding dress." Here is taking a look at other celebrities who walked the red carpet together, and soon after walked down the aisle.

Despite the strong buzz about a relationship brewing between Bipasha Basu and Karan Singh Grover during the shoot of 'Alone', both actors kept mum about the reports. It was only when Karan was promoting his second film that he conceded that Bipasha 'is special and very dear' to him. Every time the media questioned them, the two actors consistently kept quiet about their relationship. At the same time, they never shied away from posting pictures of them, while going on their holidays.

Even when reports of their wedding plans made news, the couple at first denied them but soon confessed that April 29 was indeed the day on which they were tying the knot.

Yuvraj Singh and Hazel Keech

Indian cricketer Yuvraj Singh annouced at teammate Harbhajan Singh's wedding with Geeta Basra last October that Hazel Keech was the woman he'll spend the rest of his life with. A month later, when they went holidaying in Bali, he popped the question with a ring and she accepted. The two are said to be tying the knot later this year.

Kareena Kapoor Khan and Saif Ali Khan

While the public may not remember 'Tashan' best known for Kareena Kapoor Khan's size zero figure, she and Saif Ali Khan would never like to forget this film. It was during the Greece schedule of this film that the two fell in love. Though reports of their affair made news, they remained non-committal to the media. Until they walked the ramp together for her friend designer Manish Malhotra at a fashion event in 2007. That was the first time Saif told the media that they were a couple. Later, he even got her name inked on his left arm. The tied-the-knot on October 16, 2012.

Maanayata and Sanjay Dutt

Married twice before, Sanjay Dutt made known that Maanayata was the woman of his life when he walked in with her at an awards function in January 2007. A few days later, on January 11, 2007, he told a tabloid that he and Maanayata had a secret wedding at his house on November 19, 2006. However, after the news spread like wildfire, he went in denial mode. Their registered marriage in Goa on February 7 a year later became the subject of controversy, as they weren't residents of the state. A couple of days later, they solemnised their marriage vows as per Hindu rites.

Virat Kohli and Anushka Sharma

When the reports of Anushka Sharma and Indian cricketer Virat Kohli being a couple appeared, the two went in overdrive denying the news through their spokespersons. It was Virat who first revealed the relationship when he tweeted after watching her film, "Just watched #NH10 and I am blown away. What a brilliant film and specially an outstanding performance by my love @AnushkaSharma. SO PROUD:)" Even as they continued going steady, they didn't concede their relationship to the media until they walked in haathon-mein-haath at a fashion event July 2015.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane

You smile at me,
you tell me that I'm pretty,
you tell me I'm different.
I think I like the words you say,
better than I like you.
Its hard when the flattery and the warmth of you
engulfs me and
makes me feel wanted.
So you cuddle me in closer
and the closer we get,
the more I know
that this
--
this
thing
--
is not what I want.

Do you judge me for being non committal?

Do you look down on me and wonder as to why I have such strong negatives on love?
Do you ever give me a solemn look and try to reconstruct what went wrong with me?
Who hurt me and why?

Because all you can do is ask.
I’ll tell you why I’m non committal.

But regardless of how simple it is.
I see you.
Racking your brain, staring deep into my eyes.
Hopeful that you could save me.
And of course naturally my response seems like you’re my hero.

And it feels great to you. To be the woman to change my pain and turn it into something better.
Realistically, I’m afraid I’m racking my brain over having someone as great as you and still feel nothing.

Instinctively I react to all the things you want me to react to.
I flow to your sensitivity, to your movements and to your soul.
My body in sync with everything that you are.
And it feels like it should be great but I’m in the worst state of indifference. And I want to hate it, but I feel nothing towards it.

I see you though.
It’s unfortunate that you don’t see me all the way through.

And even if you did. What good will it do but cause pain.

We were equally matched
Until a plan was hatched
You became the subtle aggressor
By making appearances lesser
Using your passion aggression
To steer a passive direction

You perform a vanishing act
By canvassing flak
Balancing black
Against a sky so blue
Teaching me that which is true
Is different from what I knew
So my anxiety naturally grew

You launch a resistance
By remaining silent
On this plane of existence
Where you're the pilot
Not taking the right angle
Into the Bermuda Triangle
That is your social sphere
Where you disappear
From committal fear
Of love being near

So I throw a search party
But your presence is tardy
Because you're departing
On the journey you're starting
Without me
Slouching
From my submission
To your anti-admission
Splitting our position
Like nuclear fission

The air has become radioactive
Through light that is refractive
Through ways which are retractive
Living this ugly way to live
Sharpening my shiv
To escape this cell of decay
Where flowers bloom and fray
But can't see the light of day
Not one ray

Stuck in the marked moor
Of this dark war
I use parkour
To avoid aggressor attacks
Never cutting me any slack
Bringing pain back
Until I crack

Lost in your blank expression
I make a grave concession
Enslaved to your impression
Yet afraid of your aggression
Caught between
Taking heed
And fulfilling needs
Born from greed
I'll only impede

You scream aggressively
Like you're ******* me
Just by addressing me
After making a mess of me
With deafening quiet
You attack with a diet
Of a steady riot
And I won't buy it

You left when you were here
But stayed once you weren't near
You switched to a guillotine gear
Based on how you wanted to appear
Striking me from the equation
By utilizing deflation
For a sinister elation
You removed our relation

Red roses, red ribbons, and war.
I’ll fill you up and leave you wanting more.
White wine, white lies, and dust.
I’ll turn your “might” into a “must”.
Dark eyes, dark nights, and a game.
I’ll be the winner, you’ll bear the pain.
Clear head, clear heart, and hope
I’ll hang by your feet at the end of my rope.

You’ll dance on my fiddle,
and seek my acquittal,
as I stand, non-committal
and feed you love’s riddle.

One hit, one kiss, and a hook.
I’ll script the ending to your repeatable book.
Two more, too much, then again, more
I’ll be the curse you long to endure.
Three hopes, three ghosts, and a ****’s crow.
I’ll write the only truth you’ll choose to know.
For what? For whom? You’ll plead.
I’ll offer a reminder: you exist for me.

I’ll act as gravity,
a pull towards depravity,
and at the brink of insanity,
I’ll walk away, earth-shattering.

It all started one summer. It was a summer full of boundless love and mischief. Things were happy and easy, but non-committal. It was one of those times when you just felt happy to exist and that’s what it was. But nothing is ever permanent. He was leaving for college in the fall, moving half-way across the country, thousands and thousands of miles away. And it was the summer before her senior year of high school. Things weren’t complicated yet. But lofty anticipation is frightening and there was always something that held them back. They knew it couldn’t last. They knew their romance would soon come to an end. So they took it as it was and that seemed to be okay.

They spent their time venturing out. Each day was a new and different adventure. What else could they conquer with raw feelings and attraction? Kissing under the sun and loving below the moon. Every time one spent time with the other it seemed something of a dream to them. Summer dug its fingers deep down into them, brightened up their insides until their blood stream glowed golden. It guided the two lovers down the ***** paths of youth, carefree mis-happenings, and daydreams. Their heads were dizzied as they’d drift away with each other whilst sitting under a tree in the mid-afternoon.

He left and they were both sad but only for a little while. He will always have a special place in her heart, and she in his, but they were young and reckless and maybe that’s all they were supposed to be. They kept in touch by writing handwritten letters back and forth for the first few months he was away. She thought about him a lot. She was always at the back of his mind. He didn’t come home over Thanksgiving like he said he might. So her heart ached a little. About a month or so passed and he was back but things had already become complicated. Maybe even awkward. They were both sad, slightly bitter, but what else was there to do? It was over before it was ever anything, a lost cause from the beginning. Right? But it seemed a desperate hope kept bringing them back together, making their paths cross again and again. He went back to California and she carried on her mundane existence. Time passed. He finished his first year of college and she had graduated from high school. They were two completely different people than the summer before. Things became even more complicated, even more destructive.

They were reunited yet again and with liquor on their breath and old feelings wilting in their hearts, they got lost into the night with each other. The folds of the sensual darkness took them in and nurtured them only to poison them the next day. And the following days. And the following weeks. They would go weeks without talking. She even left the country for two weeks and they never spoke a word to each other. But things aren’t that simple and nothing ever ends that easy. He was scared and she was desperate for his affection. And still, something kept pulling them back together despite them trying to avoid the other. It was incapable of being ignored and brought with it a great deal of anxiety on both ends of the chain. Things were tense. They weren’t airy and simple like they were before.

Things are heavy now, there’s too much baggage. He says she is too good for him, that he doesn’t want to be with her because losing her is inevitable. He is consumed with self-hatred. He told her he hates himself too much to ever share any of himself with anyone else and it made her so sad. She said to him, “I just wish you could see yourself the way I see you,” and he just blurted out that he was in love with someone else. He apologized. It was someone back in California. But he still loved her, he was just confused and rightfully unsure as to how to go about addressing that. Her heart was weak as it dropped to her stomach when he said, “Can I kiss you? It’s okay if you say no.” And of course she said yes. And so he did. And then he left.

Another visit to
Med Psych;
the withdrawals are
horrendous.
I’m emaciated and malnourished.
With the exception of
one meal every few
days, I’ve dined on ***** and
wine for my sustenance.

I check out a lap top from
the patient library, and
try to get the poems organized on
my flash drive.
Concentration is elusive.

The psych doctor decides
to have me committed.
She’s concerned about my
worsening health and depression.
I guess I can’t  
blame her, but what
bird likes a cage?

I try to talk her
out of it,
but she’s resolute.

The next day, just
as the deputy is
serving me the
committal papers, I have
a seizure—a bad one.
My lips turn blue.
I **** myself.
The doctors pump me full
of Ativan.  Everything is a  
blur for the next
week.
Slowly, softly,
my mind comes back.

I get a room-mate;
turns out he’s an
artist, a fantastic
abstract painter,
his name’s Chris.
Chris gets the activity
director to bring
him some paints and
other art supplies.

He goes to work;
stabbing the paper
with his brush—
makes it bleed with
color.  He’s a young  
drunk;
a madman and a  
genius.
I have my notebook and
my sword.
I pound out the word, the line,
my highway through this
silly society.

Chris and I talked
long into the autumn
night, locked in a  
cerebral prison.

The room we were in
was more like a Greenwich Village
beat pad than it was a  
hospital room.

It's been a while since I've let my fingers do the talking
Subtle clattering intermittent between self consuming stares into space
Strange and conventional instrumental atmospheres driving fantastical thought
And that self indulgent need to be heard by people without discernible cells

I guess my poems are a hobby of sorts
A collection of ideas, observations and metaphors put forward (barely) structurally
Though I admit the process is more for introverted enjoyment than anything direct
What my tongue would sound blurting these words is a fantasy in itself

I try to stay optimistic in them
Holding on to my passion for the positive, despite the convoluted dysfunction of the day to day
I do it with the same eyes as speaking to others, trying to be someone who's worth being around
Ending with some ******* non-committal message about an approach towards tomorrow

I hope one day I'll get around to reading these poems
Hearing what my inner monologue sounds like in that quiet but intently occupied space
Taking the time off poor sods who'll listen, hoping that the messages mean more than just metaphor
But I'll get over it if life doesn't produce such idealistic circumstances

Thanks for reading what I've written
These white spaces have given me a quiet personal realm for exploring ideas
A place where I can explore my intelligence beyond academia
Indulge my passion for the written word by pouring out gallons of *******
And hopefully make someone, somewhere, smile in the process

When Donald Trump opened the floodgates last year,
by basing his campaign on paranoid fear;
By embracing the zealots, the hawks, the alt-right,
he emboldened the racists to take up his fight.

When Donald Trump barks and belittles and bellows,
he ends up with strange and revolting bedfellows,
who think, 'cause they're white they can fight and can ****
which, with horror, we witnessed there in Charlottesville.

When Donald Trump won't quickly, strongly condemn
the racists and nazis, he's standing with them.
When he's vague, non-committal, or responds with delay,
he's disgusting, pathetic, and as worthless as they.

i'm pretty sure
this is one of
the wisest pieces
of advice
i've seen

well meaning, anyway.

i walk alone
and it's a strange thing

every single time
i begin walking
i have an intense urge
to bust a move
and dance to the
music in my ears

but that would be
like feeding the animals

so i don't do it.

i am suspicious
when i walk alone
so i am constantly glancing
behind me
preparing to fight

in my mind
i am a fantastic fighter
my body moves
in deadly arcs
i can turn
anything
into a weapon
and i will
d r o p
any fool that
comes near me

i am an animal.
i shouldn't be fed
with crazy daydreams
but i keep. getting. fed.
and once i've been fed
i just want to eat more

the desire is overwhelming.

every few days
i consider taking up
a new hobby
like smoking,
or a destructive
non-committal attitude

but i always decide
not to feed
this animal
anything

but words.

Dear Sirs,
            
He loved your magazine.

At night

it took him to places
where he could never go,
to warm and smiling lands,
to adventures in the paradise of his dreams.
He met happy friendly people,
who enjoyed life,
who had lives,

people who went
where they wanted
to do
what they pleased,
people who had no care
but for the next experience,
the ultimate daiquiri
the best bite of lobster,

who dealt with weighty questions
about
the marbling of steak,
the proper age of spring lamb,
the quality of truffles in Perigord.

He lay awake
at night
and wondered
about the snow depth in Aspen,
about climbing the Matterhorn,
about accommodations in Katmandu.

He imagined
Malay shadow play
on the ceiling of his house,
smiling Sherpas serving steaming tea
on the blue ice glaciers of Mt. Everest.
He dreamed
of
finger dancing in Chang Mai,
outrigger races in Tahiti,

a mysterious rendezvous
on the Orient Express,
lazy boat rides
on the Danube,

a visit
to Kafka’s house.

He loved your magazine.

He loved its’ breadth,
it’s many pages,
it’s thick cover.
He liked to tape it
to his chest

in the morning

when his house slammed open,
when he lock-stepped to the yard.
He felt its comforting girth
a glossy pulp breastplate
armor for a paladin
in a savage island’s
waking nightmare
of
numbing terror,
grinding fear,
sudden death.

He strolled about the yard
in sunlight without warmth
nodding to devils he knew
ignoring the ones he didn’t
deflecting their knowing looks.

Defense was automatic:

prison is a universe of deceit,
lies are the coin of its realms,
in the market place of its interactions
charlatans abound and falsity reigns
undisturbed by facts or connection
to an outside world.

A man can be
whoever he chooses.
Behind the walls
it only requires
imagination.

The best liars
present a blank façade.
a conscious mirror reflects nothing.                                          
it lies without effort.

But,
behind the reflection,
the liar dreads
front street’s abhorrent truths;
weaknesses revealed
raw nerves exposed
by
dueling tongues’escalation.

Under constant observation
in a search lit world
touche
means more than point.
Face is
the sole possession of the ******.
Loss of face is an injury to the soul.

Shame
triggers combat
mean street’s rock ‘n roll
the back alley ballet
injured egos’
minuet d’mort.

And so the duet began;
two bored men
picking at the scabs
of each others weaknesses
each wound answered with another.

Their hot blood’s impassioned words
attracted schooling convicts cruising the yard.
The observers circled ominously
the hint of ******
a carnal lure.

No one chose sides
it was a private affair.
Crocodilian eyes peered
out of the non-committal murk
awaiting a feast of suffering
reflexively prepared
to slide into the mix,
to make turbulent
the stagnant pool
of prison life.
Fury’s moment
relieves the boredom.

A crowd of cruel eyes
illumined the arena.
Fangs flashed
in their savage attentions’ glare.
Contending wills
weighed
by a deadly balance
clashed
with the gnash of steels.
Shanks fenced
point counterpoint.
A gladiator fell
his heart punctured
by a screwdriver blade.

The writhing form
grew still.
Life soaked the concrete.

Blood brought bedlam,
a contagious frothing madness,
goons, gunfire, and choking gas,
a grim entertainment’s finale.

Laughter and derisive shouts,
the demons’ choral refrain,
were funeral music
for a loser’s journey
on a gurney to the morgue,
and the pages
of a magazine
lay scarlet on the ground,
fantasies
trampled
under sullen jealous feet.

Who invented such a tiny word to describe something that is so large?
Four letters can't possibly cap a subject that the heart gives free of charge.

Even if I say it twice or three times in a row,
It's too small a word to make truly how I feel show.

If I were hired by love experts to invent a whole new word,
It would be something long and complex that they hadn't ever heard.

It would be more immense to declare then by a child who is autistic,
With enough time to think it would rhyme with supercalafragalistic.

But in the end I'm left with nothing then these committal letters four,
Repeating them again in hopes that they will mean ever so much more....

He insisted we go down
To a place near the river
He was briefly obsessed with the boats
And explained he didn't have anywhere to stay that night.

All these constant changes of subject,
And weird self-obsessions,
Then he calls ME half crazy,
As if that would make his company pleasant.

Why does he keep checking the origin
Of my tea
And of my oranges.
He's a loveless, non-committal fool.
Just when you think
He understands what you're saying,
He says something stupid.
And I don't say anything,
Just let the river do the talking.
He's delusional about our relationship.

And he wants to come on vacation with me
And he doesn't seem to care to where,
And he thinks somehow I'd trust him,
And he makes lascivious comments about my body.  

Jesus, how did sailing come into this?
Is he some evangelical nut?
Oh man, he is going on about this.
Sailing, and garbage and flowers and seaweed.
He clearly cannot maintain a train of thought.

I look at my watch,
I take out my mirror,
I practice my 'yeah, sure, I'm interested face.'

And again he's off again about coming on my vacation,
And again he doesn't care where to,
And again he thinks himself trustworthy
And again, with the unwelcomed comments about my body.

She arises from sorrow's casket,
trussed up in a dusky wedding dress,
yellow tinted cushions below her,
supposedly,
supporting her deathly pallid head,
somewhat discoloured,
looking rather distressed.
carnations and confetti unfurled,
sprinkled maybe as pretty portents abound,
a warning,
that maybe true love ne'er lasts.

Her man,
he sits longingly,
enduring his pain,
perhaps as a tragic hero,
awaiting,
almost to take the blame,
the blame for her demise,
beside her he crouches,
as she's sat,
upon her marble slab,

And yet again,
she rises,
yawning,
stretching out her immortal warning,

Poplars dress the mausoleum,
behind the greying pillars,
to the right,
a gathering,
a crowd small in number,
most impressed,
by non-committal of death's distress,
and her lover,
he sits,
and sits some more,
looking longingly into death's dark eyes,
while patiently awaiting her final tragic goodbye.
(c) Livvi

Been a while since I took them, the little keys to sleep. Unlock codes for unconsciousness, cheat codes for non-committal death.

But tonight the pain is unbearable, the mental wounds are bleeding like they’re fresh. Scenes replaying in my mind constantly, mocking me mercilessly for believing that they’d left.

Time is supposed to be a healer, or so I’ve been told. Time must have missed me off it’s to-do list because  healing is a card I’ve never been dealt.

The pain is effervescent bubbling through my veins and laying heavy on my chest. Tramadol couldn’t even dull it, it demands to be felt.

My only recourse are these tiny promises of temporary respite; I take more than recommended, playing roulette with this life.

It’s been a while since I took them, the little keys to sleep, I wish I could leave them but I’m weak.

I finally met someone like me
He's sharp of wit
Charming in attitude
Smooth in conversation
Closed off in emotion
Supportive in nature
Understanding off loss
Non-committal to admissions
He is everything I have ever searched for
Yet because he is such
We can never be
For I am too much like him,
And he is too much like me
So alas I'll watching him pass
Just a drifter such as I
Such a shame it is to find perfection,
Only to watch it pass me by

i’ve been wondering lately
about the cynical views i hold dear
i identify with them greatly
but i’m not sure if they’re sincere

i don’t want to be sixty
and have not appreciated life while i have it
i never even wanted to live till sixty
but life’s all i have isn’t it

the idea of God always merely humoured me
and while an afterlife still eludes me
does nihilism’s peace really compete
with a serenity birthed purely from belief?

i’m non-committal for a family
but a child to guide and be close with
is a ***** kind of alchemy
that maybe would make me a goldsmith

i’m not one for a spouse
but i'd love someone to know me
maybe i could settle for a real house
enough to quench the wanderlust in me

society is cruel
too, life’s fatal rules
but i'd sooner be cast aside and sixty
than six feet deep at twenty

the selfishness of humanity always disgusted me
and while the blindness still eludes me
does humanity’s grief really compete
with a beauty Earthed like a stampede?

leafing through the milkman’s picture-book of outhouse graveyards

happy to taste the gum on the buried shoe

reverie a learned behavior

god a tornado warning and hearing
a ghost town, this

a cigarette from the purse
of a past

/ mother

I am
An open book
Made up of the ashes
Of fantastic people and books
Of miraculous animals and fantastical structures
Of civilizations grander than I could ever conceive
Civilizations burned down specifically
To create the pages
That I am
"Buy a building to burn, sirs!
Triple your investment when we build this child!"
They wasted a **** good concept on me
And I didn't fail
To let them down

That's right, I came from ashes
But I'm nowhere near a Phoenix
Cut me and I'll bleed
The ceremonial color of a man
Whose last will and testament
Is that no one he knows will see him
Cry so hard and so long
That the dying is over long before
The tears are through
And when the blood and tears mingle
Sense is lost
Because Spielberg's AI was not that sad
And no one understands why
Okay?
Okay.
Hits me the way it does

They used to say that illness sprang
From bad blood
I know inside I'm terrible
And maybe that's why I love
Donating blood
That on a deep subconscious level
I try to purge my impurities
Through my borderline masochism
A vampire girlfriend would suit me just fine
I think to myself
And I pump in the sleeve
Take from the vein all you desire
And my eyes roll back
What a ******* ******

"Don't judge me" I tell them
Half-joking
So the sincerity in the concern is mistaken
For a good leg-pulling
I am aware and scared of what people think
In a secret sort of way
The kind that's alright as long as
No one knows
Because when they know
They'll control you
And you, helpless to your worry
Will stress and believe everything
"I don't want to be hated"
Be non-committal
See both sides
Don't vote for anyone, tell them you have to go
Take a stand, *******
I am a spineless *******
Who is trying so hard to grow a spine
You can be emotional and have a spine
But some days I would rather just have a spine
And the will to speak

Arrogance is a virtue
According to my mind
It compensates feelings of intense insecurity
With bouts of arrogance
Founded in the juvenile feeling of
"Everyone *****! I'm the best!"
Which is only thinly veiling
"Why the **** do I continue to be a waste
Of oxygen and space? This is what my shoelaces
Are for. . ."
But I don't want to be left hanging in the wind
Feet kicking off the chains of mortality
And accepting the un-existence
Of my destined oblivion

I am
A self-fulfilling prophecy
Written on the charred bones
Of civilizations grander than I could ever conceive
"He will grow until he doesn't
Live until he doesn't
Think until he doesn't
And when the stars are aligned
In the perfect triangle
He will exist as an entity
Until he doesn't"
I cannot escape this fate
But I can ease my mind from
The horrors of pre-destination
By being defiant
And every once in a while
Live even when I don't
Think and exist and grow
All while not doing any of them
I will do what cannot be done
Because my life deserves the illusion
Of control

To ride along and see what you see
It's nothing committal but merely
Something to please my curiousity
Deep in my past; a faint moment
A rememberance of time past

Perhaps its your allure
Or your clean and beautiful scent
That leaves me breathless
I'm suddenly ashamed
That I could ask of you
Any moment of the day

But then I pause and realize
That you're much too fragile
To bear the burden
Of the weight of my memories
The road doesn't fork
It's just that I step aside

i know why you do it -
the back-and-forth,
the maybe-maybe-not daily ritual of
non-committal niceties
and incongruent  actions
that keep everyone on the edge -
it's a control,
a way of dealing with the world
so you can face another day,
so you can look in the mirror and feel good about yourself,
and know there's something that depends on you,
and your upside-inside-down-out life
has a moment of peace in it that you can understand.
And that's fine -
you need to function that way,
to play the puppeteer.
But I do not dance that way.

I was still mesmerized by you,
leaning against a faded brick wall
lazily flicking a cigarette
against the 90 dollar jeans
I believed you ripped yourself,

when your mouth opened and all I saw
were those perfect lips, that perfect mouth—
your words hardly registering,
some blasé speech
I bet you pre-rehearsed,

“you know, desperate time desperate measures
and all that jazz—”
with a non-committal hand wave
as if accountability was a fly in the air
you could swat away.

I stared at your hand,
suddenly hopeful you’d choke
on that Marlboro Red,
and realizing the problem with pedestals:
there’s no graceful way to fall off.

May my words be glorious
Victorious
Infintisimal
May they be a glitch in the matrix
Seen before
Done before
When it's the first time you hear

May they be the wings of angels
The hands of devils
The non committal
The ever lasting truth
And always
Let all of my words speak to you
In a way you never knew
Let them show deeper meaning
Profundity of feeling

May my words be shouted from a pulpit
Or whispered from a pit
May they be everything
Both fools gold
And wiseman's lesson
An image you see in your mind
The beauty of mankind
And the torture that comes from living
A painting in black and white
With no canvas
And space and shape
Are only sound
Of my words read aloud

May my words be the footfalls
Of a sanguine traveler
A despondent wanderer
Let my words find their home
That they may win or lose
Or be whatever you choose
Let them find you

May my words reach you

its been a while,
and my dear one, you're one of the very few who actually know about the existence of this.
i would love to thank you for loving me,
quite unconditionally and teaching me about what love can and cannot do.
i truly am over the love we had,
i tumbled into things i never thought i could achieve.
ive met wonderful people and achieved great heights of intellectual conversations i thought i've lost.
i gained back the edges, cutting through the desolate landscape of the world that i use to feel apathy towards.
these people ive met along the way shaped me into who am i, and made me clear of purpose.

i have to write in order to let myself remember in the future,
this was what i had.

to a,
you were something more of an infatuation and quicksand of self destruction.
i met you when i fell off the ledge of a relationship that turned out to be emotionally abusive for both ends.
shattered expectations and broken visions,
i thought i deserve the worst for inflicting pain upon others.
hence i was attracted to non-committal things like plastic cutleries, paper cups, napkins
and you.
where you use and trash.
you pulled my heartstrings and made me anxious, as i was also doing the same to you, i assume
with unreplied texts and flirty converses.
alcohol filled nights,
and those nights where your mouth meets the softest part of me,
where i give in to the pleasure of an illusion of being loved.
this did not last long,
i was too afraid, like a deer in the headlights.
fight or flight, of which i did both, fighting off my feelings and flight as you were using me as i was  you.

to k,
i wish you didnt have to leave,
much as i hated the british accent,
i definitely did not hate you.
i truly wish id spent more time with you
that evening at an empty reggae bar,
grinding and making moves on each other was far from being enough.
i want to continue laughing at you for being a hairy gorilla,
getting distracted by changkat and all the sober drinks we had.
it made the night even more real,
that we did not need substance to know that we were attracted.
and you stopped when i said no.
i think i fell a little then.
that other evening where we stayed in because it rained.
you didnt murmur sweet nothings,
you made sure i liked everything instead,
asking if i was comfortable, slowly tracing fingers and tongue upon my skin,
then setting ablaze a wildfire which left both of us slick with sweat.
all the ****** fluids weren't in vain,
trickling and forming a puddle of complicated emotions i cannot name and fathom.
both nights with neon lights in our eyes,
we could only see each other.
in broad day,
i was your lover, the one you want to hug and carry and give all attention to.
aye habibi,
if and only if.
i was truly grateful for what we had.

to l,
i met you during the brink of one of your hardest time.
i thought i wouldnt have a chance,
and i didnt know i could like someone of my gender this much, yet.
i love how you act,
and your certainty, and honesty.
i have to be honest, and say i dont know how i feel yet,
i feel unprepared, but i want you,
that i know for certain.
i like you, your humor,
your chipmunk cheeks
you and ice cream.
you're a broad daydream and somewhat of a special snowflake i want to appreciate the beauty of.
give me some time will ya.

Her bed
Isn't as interesting
As it used to be.
Her bed
Isn't as enticing
Anymore
To me.

Her bed
Has become
The bed
Of non-marital
Of non-committal
Separation,
Where an imaginary
But real
Wall
Blocks all intimacy
And separates us.
It has become
Holy
And wholly
Immune
To all and every
Non-existent touch,
Immune
To all and every
imagined intimacy
Contrived
Or concocted love.


Her bed
Has become
Just a place
To half-sleep
Half-dream
To lay my head.
Her bed
Has become
Still
Life-
Less,
Loveless,
And the place of
The love-dead.

Her bed
Makes me want to fly away home
To my own
Home
And bed
Though I'll be just as lonely
And alone
As when
I'm in
Her bed.
Her bed
Makes me want to fly away home
To the only true love
I've ever known;
Fly away, fly away
To Jesus
And up to holy heaven
high above
Far away from
The heart
Innocuous,
The heart
Inoculated
Against love.

I need to get her
Out
Of my heart,
Of my head
I need to
Get myself
Home
And out of
Her bed.

no
yes
non-
committal

Some people are beautifully abstract movies:
enlightened visions of an idea come to life through cryptic scripting and inspired cinematography.
Slow burns full of brilliant dialogue that leave you thinking about them long after you've seen their open endings.
The kind that only the intelligentsia could ever truly appreciate, with a poor audience score but universally loved by critics.
The kind of movie with a cult following that comes up in late night conversations amongst hipsters sharing their opinions on the pieces of art that have made the biggest, longest lasting impacts on them.
The kind that takes hours of scrutiny and analyzation just to feel like you've arrived at some vague sense of what it all means.

And then there are people like me,
who are less like grand artistic visions of profound cinematography,
and more like reality tv.

The kind of thing a working suburban mother tunes into after a double at the local diner/supermarket/pharmacy counter.

The kind of non-committal, light-hearted viewing that never comes close to demanding your full attention. Just a myriad of characters brought together with a loose premise and slightly coerced tension.

The kind of thing you could have a conversation over, and walk away from and come back to, and still know what's going on, because it's just all so obvious - it never requires much thought.

The kind of show where the actors have every viewer convinced that they're something that they're not.

I feel despair, desolate, despondent
You have diametrically detached me from my roots
It is because of the pain and the sorrow you bring that I"m destitute
Gunshots, accidents, ambulance sirens and police sirens are becoming
painful music unto my bleeding ears and they remind me that you're still there
Our journey to heaven has good intentions yet I detest how you force my brothers and sisters to abdicate what they are destined for
We embark on blood-print streets with eyes full of non-committal attitude because fear and hatred that seem to follow our shadow
Waking up is like a nightmare itself for we always wake up to dig six feet tall, spades and tents are our weekly bread
We live our lives with the hate of your existence and I detest how you defend yourself based on the doings of Adam and Eve
I am tired of your diabolical actions that have cost the nation
It is because of you that I am destitute

Hold your breath when someone says their name so that you can associate it with drowning. Maybe next time you find yourself submerged in water the sound of their voice will haunt you. In that case; open your eyes wide, let the chlorine burn the absence into your skull

2. Grow a pair of wings and saw them off with a kitchen knife. Gulp down an entire bottle of wine. Staple goats' horns to your forehead. Fear nothing. Fear yourself. Tell yourself that you are a monster, you are the antagonist in every horror story you've ever seen.

3. Open your laptop in the dead of night and flirt with strangers online. Stay anonymous and non-committal. Be ****** and crass. Tell them exactly how you feel and laugh when they are uncomfortable. Maybe someone will fall in love with you; turn them down. After this you will feel hollow and used; but you will not be thinking about them.

4. Wait for the sky to open up and the rain to come down in melancholy kisses. Go for a walk without your shoes and when the thunder roars- roar back. You are just as mighty. But like the downpour you are just as sad- let the sky's sorrow wash you clean.

5. Take yourself to a romance movie in the middle of the day and sob angrily in the empty theater. Tell those gorgeous Hollywood actors where they can shove it. Carve your name into the back of the seat.

6. Fill your brain with any and all kinds of love that you can find. You love the flowers; the daisies and their bright smiles. You love the dogs in the park;how they gallop and pant. You love your mom; her soft concerned expression. You love the night;his deep and endless mourning-you love the day;her bright and burning potential.

I have memories,
nothing more than memories,
of the time you held my hand so tight in yours,
at times you crushed my hand so tight the pain seared,
my hand was your support mechanism,
at your darkest frightened moments,
my fingers are numb,
as is my heart,
my heart more so,
my digits are chilled,
so please don't hold my hand again,
unless you are one of my patients in need of clinical support,
If I wasn't breathing and crying,
I could almost profess to being dead.
I am a professor of truth,
a professor of the abstract mind,
the mind of non-committal dreams.
As he cried and he cried,
I don't want you to go,
but I did,
And how I loved you!
(C) Livvi