The name was Antappan.
On his wedding invitation
He printed the famous words
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi -
(Today it's me, tomorrow it will be you.)

Whoever  asked
“Are you nuts, Antappaaa?”
Got a voiceless laugh in reply.

In native tongue
The laughter said
No quotes are quoted
Except through one’s own life.

Though not a charming name
It ‘s true that from that day
Antappan came to be called
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan.


Everyone who attended
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan’s wedding
Wolfed down the pork and the beef.

Everyone who attended
Hodie Mihi CrasTibi Antappan’s wedding
Gifted pretty sums of money in envelopes.

Everyone who attended
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan’s wedding
Said nasty comments about the bride.

Everyone who attended
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan’s wedding
Asked the sound system guy to play
You are lucky I am lucky loudly.

But before that a small incident at the church. As soon as he set his eyes on Antappan who was a grave digger the Chaplain forgot the wedding and without asking who died began to set the church bell tolling in that rhythm reserved for deaths. The senior Priest who heard it came running and opening the small prayer book for the dead began to sing the song the seeds sprout in the fields when it rains. Hearing that the girls in the choir sang the rest of the song when they hear the clarion call life sprouts in the dead and went on to the prose portion I call you lord from the abysses. Seeing that the boy who helps with the communion lighted the candle and incense stick for the dead. (Meanwhile the bride’s naughty song you who is not dead yet will you not **** me tonight also rang in Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan’s ears.) Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan who realized that the same flowers meant to be wreaths at some house of death were now adorning his ***** as a garland laughed his famous voiceless laugh.

what i've learned once treading on this path of the writing endeavour: i've become more of a stranger to myself, and a friend unto strangers; perplexing as it sounds, it nonetheless is the foremost acquaintance in experiencing, and fiddling with the medium.

which is, i dare say, so anti-socratic -
but the socratic method is all talk -
writing? hardly the reason to designate
a knowledge of a self -
primarily? a method of unknowing -
or, should i say: the nautical perspective
of searching unseen & unheard of sights -
perhaps even a 5 blind men's guess
at an elephant, or quiet simply:
mining; imagine, to the distaste of the local,
how a "posh" accent sounds in
essex, the land of dubious tongue-effigies...
how the english language *in totalis
looks like a disfigured tongue sculpture,
but if i were a native: there would be
no outsider ref. to cling to with
crab-like pincers,
                  or bullterrier jawline grip;
first you break the spirits, then you
settle on sniffing crushed ivory.
  and yes, i'll always think of the nigerian
chinua achebe calling joseph conrad
a "****** racist" - by now i'm past being
concerned being called out in some bogus,
if not macabre bingo game...
     that "label" is worth to me as much as
a hello, my name is... badge -
there's no honour in it -
           then again, i think about a white man
being racist over the spilled-beans of
looking at an albino... esp. one with an afro...
i have this memory, you see,
this mongrel of a polish girl in school,
art class, and she mentioned something
that still sticks to me like a leech...
no, not the similarity of south asian and african
noses, with the flattened lateral cartilage,
say any african and the malaysians...
this ***** dug deep...
    she said: oh, these poles don't have the perfect
african bone sculpture of the africans,
do they? what she meant, and yes, i agree,
was the not-so-protruding occipital -
yes, it's not as well "formed" as other skulls,
i guess that just adds to the pressure of
whatever the back of the brain is intended
for... a deformity? don't know -
                           what does that matter?
but these early quasimodo implants of perception
i.e. akin to the toothfairy / red dragon
start to bug you after a while -
      what's imperfect is celebrated -
and what's almost perfect: well -
that just goes into the dumpster -
   a pile of hot ****, a feast for fly dump of
concentrated maggot(s).
            which coincides with another thing -
i can stomach german existentialism,
   i can stomach the pish-poor french version
(compared with the richness of the russian
novel)...
i can stomach swedish cinematic take on
existentialism...
             what i can't stand is the english version,
i.e. primarily the aversion to the already
stated versions...
       english existentialism has become
a desperate cry - to me english existentialism
is not fit for conversation,
   it's not lecture and it's most certainly not
cafe talk, there is no: in the time & in the space
occupied...
                 english existentialism is
   non tempus non locus - sure, a precursor of
philosophy, but also the same mouth that
bites into a chicken bone with gums, but no teeth!
to me, what i hear is an existential blackmail,
   and the skipping rope chaos of moving from
the three prime pillars in the anglophone world:
evolutionary biology, the big bang and
(depending where you are): either the magna carta
or the declaration of independence;
   me? my universe began yesterday,
it will end today, and will begin once more tomorrow,
heri, nunc, cras...
            yesterday, today, tomorrow;
and frankly, i'll settle for that,
  but i'll also settle for akin to voltaire's observation
that the english are a nation of shopkeepers...
sure... and they're also the most ardent
naturalists.
              as we know french love pastry dough,
the italians love pasta, and the germans love metal;
further east it's ***** baby, *****.
    - a pole and a hungarian:
  bracia, do kieliszka, i szabelki (brothers,
  to a glass and to a saber).
              besides that?
(look, i have to make this quick, i've got
a mushroom soup going, but i'm missing white wine,
parsley and double cream for the main course
of mustard chicken - sarekpsa, dijon &
  bavarian mustards) -
                      and further will a kettle or
a stuffed toy travel from china to anywhere in
the western world, than a western idea
to china...
     there are limitations on the export & import
of ideas...
              esp. those that have no ethno-centric
"importance", rather an ethno-centric
  trans-literary impotence...
                   sometimes language can't be managed
by a translation that's global / universal -
sometimes the black & white really does only
sink to the depth of skin...
     after all: a white psyche is not a black psyche...
there is no universally robust uniformity of
a psyche in either jungian or freudian sentiments,
black music i can adore above classical,
but i have, perhaps only one or two books by
a black author...
  will alexander & gil scott heron...
       and that's about it...
      hey, same ****, different cover elsewhere...
then again i double up on perplexity -
  if this medium is the undifferentiated balance
of extremes i.e. white in all and black in lack -
        what the hell could possibly be deemed
"racist" - notably the denial of one's nationalistic
struggle with the hindsight of that
current year, under either a tsar or a tsarina in
1857? and to think i loved a russian woman
once...                                    once is enough.

There are some days that are better than others.
There are some days that hurt.
Some that heal.
Some that rip you apart from the inside out.
Some that feel like nothing could sour your feelings but it’s all lies.
Indifference is a blessing.
Ignorance is a curse.
Knowledge isn’t power, it just makes you feel worse.
Being too depressed, too suicidal, too manic to function is draining in the worst way.
Sometimes you just want to be happy but that isn’t always the case.
Sometimes you just want to cry your heart out but it’s just a waste.
Sometimes you want to live and survive; sometimes you want to die and end it all.
Living for something or living for nothing matters not.
It’s the functionality, the purpose you serve to yourself that does.
This too shall pass but alas, in its fleeting moments it is almost unbearable.
“Maybe,” you say, it’s but a whisper.
You know that you’ll be okay someday; just not today.
Let’s try again tomorrow.

When day breaks,
And might should come,
But nothing,
Nothing but
Nothing.

When noon marches,
And the sheets feel heavy,
The air of the room
Fastening you
Down.
                                                            
Then night settles in,
And your bones buzz,
And your muse says
"Tomorrow
And
Tomorrow
And..."
Wait
That's something else.

There are pins and needles in my feet made of guilt and cheap *****,
bits of me are missing left in kisses and paint
                                            everything else I put my heart into
too early and yanked it right back out
too quickly. I'd make promises like icicles pressed hard to my tongue
as if it wouldn't melt. The tissues in my dorm were used up
before forget-me-not's toppled  to the floor,
the dirt strewn on my slippers that I just threw out
and left the mess there for weeks
stayed in bed above it all,
acupuncture can't cure this ache. Pumping my stomach can't empty
what is already empty. It's like a quarter on a string placed in a vending machine.
I get what I want and leave
with exactly what I came with
and more. But on rare occasions the coin is left on the floor.
I don't bother to pick it up because maybe it belongs there,
dancing among dust bunnies and clumps of hair.
There are needles underneath the first layer of skin on my fingertips
and they don't hurt. It's a feeling of uneasiness like a knot
in the chain of my necklace. I'll work it out later.
Pro-cras-tin-ation. You are the crab on an aluminum can, a moon lit with moths
a ninety year old man who burnt down his house from lighting too many candles.
Take it all in
                      for yourself.
It's not selfish, it's right. Because the sun burns the top of my head
even when my body is cold. Without you in my presence, my own hand I will hold
to cross the street.
Don't count your blessings until your hand is around their necks
so they have no way to escape without suffocation.

Gunpowder anthem in flashpan thunder
tumbleweed talk of morrow
drifts along: cras enim moriemur;
interred in epigraphs cast in callow.

In turn, they marched to battle
swagger forth with merry prattle
and in turn, I heard in faux bravado:
live today like there's no tomorrow.

and the three type of mustard: sarekpsa, dijon & bavarian.

i once offered a challenge,
   which wasn't much -
      never rhyme like a fool -
but narrate like horem -
   never rhyme like a "poet" -
rather, narrate like a virgil -
rhyme is dead,
   and the school of "poets"
obsessed, conscious of invoking
a pun metaphor whatever it
is they use to replace
craft of carpentry - nail
hammer etc. -
     and i was told:
  you want to make your writing
as rigid and bland as
an *ikea manual for putting
up some shelves?
        nothing spontaneous,
nothing nuanced,
  nothing of a cabaret voltaire
types of expression?
  fine by me,
mould me an effigy,
rather than, as a god,
an animate body of blood
**** and bones...
     and someone once said
of the porcelain ballerina
beauties: mandible on the stage,
but a necrophilic fest in
the bedroom...
          and yes, i have an answer
to nihilism...
like depression was once called
the romantic name
melancholy - this too was
once called by a romantic name...
someone once said:
there is nothing worse than
apathy -
   but as the name suggests:
a lack of pathology -
  and i bring into the chess match
a counter to nihilism -
apathy, or as it's known
in romantic terms:
                            nonchalance.
so i ask, are you dealing with
the "arithmetics" of poetry
i.e. metaphor + pun + simile = poem,
or, are you the classicist i take
you to be, enriching yourself
with the puritanical case of, narration?

I walk the road I chose to follow.
Playing ***** screamed your shot is wacked? How to escape the truth you don't want to show your real self.


Like a shadow your self image lies like spray painting a broken angery mind that won't admit weight from wrong.





Insanity  or guilty of all your mistakes you ran instead of writing the new storie you justchews to cras an burn.

No creative ways to redeam your self.



The house if truth will make the light as bright if you speak the truth or just keep lying.



Being fake may just smash all your teeth out being fake fit you is ditch
Now it's your grave.



Being true speaking your mind making the road turn to pathes to all crazy opportunist .


Be true your own willl write society's  next move.


A posey is just a flower but
A rose is the truth about your life.
A rose is a reward for guiding the broken weak lost to the next game.

As i look in the mior at my self i see two sides of me one bright and beautiful and the other a mistory awiting to be discovered. My mind is where i spend most of my time thinking long thoughts. Pondering on what is going on. My friend is my own creativity a poet esacpinv my reality i live is hell i cant escape. My mind is full of things i cant explain. Ideas creative exiting but road lesss traveled. Bc beyong every bend is a mistake i make every time i open a new door to my own hell. Where god or satan has no control over. I am a walking hell setting wild fires with nothing left bright or beautiful. In my life there is no sun just a world of hell. If i let you see what i see you might lose your mind and go psychoticly crazy just to escape the pits of fire i walk threw. Wind chimes blow giving a chill to the air leaving me with chills of fear down my spine. My bipolar is like a roaler coster a speeding car that crashes into another cras sometimes. Most of the time i spend my time in my head thinking long thoughts pondering on the possibilitys of what is true and what is false. Week after week im stuck in my head just with all my thoughts that never seem to end it never tires me at all. My friend dont follow mw unless you wish to walk in hell like me