my condolence to my heart for witnessing
the pain of a broken desire
where was i when the shot rang out
those years ago?

distance, lover
you have played the part so well
i feel so sick to discover
you don't care
that every word from my heart
decodes into your name
with a decrescendo
by your reaction

was all of me wasted
when my life will dedicate
to honoring your name?
i just lost all feeling to logistics
example: i look up to you
but when i was lost
where were you?
you didn't even post a sign
return my love with none but empty words
and seduction furthering...

distance, lover
you have played the part so well
i feel so sick to discover
you don't care
that every word from my heart
decodes into your name
with a decrescendo
by your reaction

persistance on my part has shown me
i've wasted yet another breath
insistance to be yours has brought me
yet another wasted breath
but it's okay
i've got more cool
to focus all my energy
into something i can hold
after all... it's just the loss of a love

a message is sent
starting from my fingertips its
converted into an electrical signal
that travels up my arm, through
the network of nerves and receptors
the feeling goes up my shoulder, and around my neck
my brain decodes the message nearly the instant my
fingers send it,
another message is sent, this time from my brain
to my whole body
that instant my body warms up
starts to tickle
starts to tingle
starts to tense
i enjoy the feeling

My true feelings are obscured by pure bitter intellection.
My brain is the main heretic of my soul.
My thoughts… I know them well.
To each his own cognomen but yet I am confused.
Auto-Da-Fe…
But that won't work.

When I try to fathom I break.
And when I behold myself I shake.
No matter what I do, I will be held beneath the rest.
Because a sane person would help himself.
What's worse is that I know better but yet…
Perfidy…
I used to trust myself.

That’s why I write.
That’s why I write in a way that leaves all doubt behind.
Because that's how I clear my mind.
My condition hold's a banner that reads "Don’t Stop!"
But my conscience feels the need to make me be a better version of me.
So I will stop. Eventually…
Procrastination turns into never.

I am on my death bed now.
Toroidal chains erupt from thin air around me.
They tighten their grip around me in lento.
I hear a crescendo.
My sense of hearing finally decodes the glass that just fell from my hand.
I don’t see a grim reaper or Baphomet anywhere.
That gives me a little solace…
The end is near and once again, after all this time,
All I can think about is…
"What if?" ...

He stands there, staring at the beauty in front of him
The girl with the blue hair, the one from his dream,
He’s afraid of what she would say if he approached her,
Days turn into months, months turn into years,
Thanks to the fear he had witnessed in his mind, he had moved on,
He sits alone, another day passing by, the girl approaches him and talks,
And talks,
And talks,
The fear begins to lessen inside him, and he remembers why he liked her,
Hours turn into days, days turn into months,
Finally, signs appear to him, throughout the radios, and songs that would randomly play,
He pushes his fear aside, he gets the courage,
He does what he had wanted,
He asks her,
And waits, and waits, and waits for a response
Finally hours after asking, he gets a message in the form of dots and dashes,
The fear returns,
He decodes, and decodes,
The more he decodes what she said,
The more the fear leaves,
In the end,
She said yes,
The fear he once had, the fear that kept him down,
Finally left his body, and he became courageous,
And realized that fear is nothing but negative emotions,
Those negative emotions,
Have now become his courage.

that was my pet name, a love's long lost word
of infuriating apathy against grey public passerby materials:
simply that: kakasha - or little ****, or mouse ****,
or rodent shrapnel - i guess me being a Pole
and she being a Russian would have never worked out -
i don't actually know what was expected of me, an English girl?
n'ah, wouldn't have worked with the master slave antics -
a Polish girl? **** me, no! well, it just ended up being
a love for the people... which is a lot and nothing at all
come to think of it... whenever i said Cyrillic
was the new Greek i was right... shame though,
i could have had a marriage correct my deviant bachelor years...
i would't have written anything at all...
and it would all seem like the perfection of life: problem here,
problem there... but that's all i remember
from the days when youth allowed  my body to be buff and me
staging  a dumb way out of having a body of a model,
but hardly the vacancy to accept it... god it takes such a
large chunk of manoeuvring a Zeppelin
to land a paper aeroplane equivalent -
               i just didn't have the vacancy
to keep at the gym routine...
         went back to the bloated lamb belly,
and felt all the better for it....
                 starting drinking professionally -
because soberness was  a bit of wasteland -
nice name, that lover's pet name: kakasha:
or little ****, or mice pebbles, don't you think?
sometimes that's what's needed to
strengthen the memory, when memory
overpowers imagination,
it's not a case of lingering on the past,
utilise phonetic encoding well enough
and the symbols reveal a lacking need to
move forward and take into consideration
triangles and squares...
          images...
      you just forget about the future...
you're not stuck in the past,
        it's just about how everything's encoded
and where you place your primers -
        but of course i'm not nostalgic
as in hoping for a revision or a revival:
i just mean: it actually happened,
i can't reverse it from having happened -
what i can do is treat memory as the most
private event of cinematography -
nothing the forward looking imagination
might breed - what imagination lacks is the
fact that symbols can't change... they remain
intact... all imagination can do
is use the same symbols of encoding that
memory otherwise decodes, unravels and
makes desecration of... imagination is politically
correct by comparison... memory really does
become the perfect cinema, provided there's
a life worthy of cinema, however simple...
i know i bankrupted on imaging things as
they'll never be... but memory?
i already knew they happened - hence
the counter-imaginative response:
memory, alter-cinema -
                     which, in another framework of
sentences is a second rebellion,
counter teeny winy annie mo - of how they
framework educational models,
stuffing our imagination with fall-safe mechanisation
of know techniques: akin to arithmetic -
and how we were taught to remember what
would readily become forgotten come the next year...
                   of what i understand:
i think             i imagine                 i remember
                   precipitates into           being
                     - thus the three prime faculties
  and akin to the rules of prime numbers:
               no positive divisor greater than 1 or the
           stated faculty per se-
      later she slanders me with the nouns schizoid
and autistic: because we didn't have the picnic
  and didn't raise a family... a lonely world indeed.
i feel: and indeed the many loves, and failings of
    the heart's housekeeping standards -
             after that it just becomes a guess-work
   pattern of competition and incompetence -
                    or how language can become anti-journalistic,
  as it often does, it never is a scenario of
             Wednesday, 6th of July 2016 a.d.
                                        and credits akin to a movie:
             like you'll never talk to the background of things
and the people who move them while you pay the tax.
right now i have a 9kg Maine **** cat trying to
escape the house during the night, a cat turned
Pavarotti - meow meow, meow ******* meow,
meow meow... Lombroso should be near... this
is really starting to bug me... he might have a case
about a cat that never shut up and the person that
strangled it...
               so, indeed, three basic faculties of the mind...
i kept them as: imagination, thinking, memorisation...
                which means i went against the
Cartesian model of denial thought and doubt -
because i found them too emotionally entwined,
and therefore less puritan in consideration -
            and also less scholastic by the looks of it -
exams...                     for me the three prime
faculties are imagination, thought and memory...
they're antidotes of what later became the existential
revision of the Cartesian inspection: how
                              namely the notion of denial
as the antidote to good faith (doubt) - i just didn't
like the kindergarten of adults playing childish games.

My dear, forgive my sinful ways of thinking. I utterly think you have no meaning in where you are standing with her. Yes, I am a spineless coward. I have no reason at all to speak to you in such a matter. But don’t you understand? It’s never enough for me. I never know where the limit of someone else’s affection is. Especially not yours.
My ecstasy when you lovers don’t speak is completely disgraceful. But I can help it not. I must disclose though, the sight of you has changed. The way my brain decodes your moves and words has evolved in that of a way that they will not puncture me - they way they had. Elementary safety.
I am somewhat relieved that you desire her and no one else. Though she was that of a sister to me, one never knows enough to trust unconditionally with one’s darkest secrets. For I’ve been taught to trust no one but myself. She never alerted me that the love sentiment was reaching her thoughts regarding you. Thus I never took precautions.
Remorse will at no time overcrowd my memories. For at one point, ending what we had was all I ever craved for. Nevertheless, I would be grateful for that first and certainty last taste of what I not once acquired.

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Words have a strange way of ignoring me
when I need them most.
They fade into the folds of blankness
blaspheming the truth of my reality.

Sheepishly I stare at the laptop screen,
hoping it would crack open
to gift me the word
that decodes the dilemma of my existence.

From the rings of fire
Where thousand tongues leap
Colonizing the breath
And conspiring revenge deep
Aiming to settle its hunger
By releasing venomous fume
I do wonder,
If our days are manship doom
Sly rips of shrewdy storms
Hail down the tempered roads
Act of god, it is so...
Who decodes these codes?
Shut the windows and doors
Shut your mouth tight
Out in the day or dark
There's definitely going to be a fight
We know the reasons gain
The sessions and dreadful days
There's enormous clueless pain
Yet, we wander our own ways...


©Seema Sen, 2020

Normal people aren't anxious and explaining their existence’s to everyone else wholly within their own mind’s. Most people don't do that. Some people do. I'm one of those people.

The abnormal fantasied reality within my conception plays exciting and often scary acts with peaking and valleying performances within. It's not real; however, I am real, so in a way it is. At least to me. And it's a reality that I face and must tame daily in order to be seen as “normal”. What ever the **** normal means anyway. Sometimes I want to run away and other times I'm too fatigued by trying to care. In stark contrast to when I get caught up in the whirl wind of passion and ideas and I want them to be tangible so bad that I sit and create. The mind loses focus. I look away for a second to make something else... That is if it's not another one of those times that I become so burnt out from the fires of present tasks of building the unreal into the real that I regress.

But I digress.

When I look back at what I've done, and it just seems like a distant memory becoming more and more distant with every passing moment of observation I can't help but get the stirring feeling to get caught up in the whirl wind once more and make a new idea. A new passionate thought forms and the creations can't help but take place. The moment is really the only thing I know for sure. It's not a dream it's as real as being awake, or at least I'd think that until it too becomes just another one of those distant memories; another one of those things amongst all things.

But perhaps I'm just projecting...

Senses; those funny things. Almost as funny as the mind that decodes their meanings. The human presence. The spirit within. the very soul. Like mine that has seemed to ache more than it has not ached. I look at all the things, big and small on the place where I currently reside in the universe that houses me. “Relative,” says one man. “Frequency,” says another. People say a lot of things. Especially to one another. What else would understand? Let alone who? Do you even understand you? I'd ask. A dog would pant, and I'd pat its head knowing all to well that we both got the meaning. So easy to try and do. So difficult not to. And if I changed the positions of the subjects it would be equally as true.

But that’s just the moment now as it would have it...