Na chand ki chandni ko chaha,
Na sooraj ki roshni ko maanga,
Na shauk mange kabhi jo duniya chahti hai,
Na teri banayi shohrat ki unchaiyon ko manga,
Jindagi mangi,
Na kabhi mangi koi mahlon ki shaan-o-shaukat,
Ae mere parwardigar Jara soch tu bhi,
Kuj bhi na diya mujhko mai fir bhi khush tha,
Ek masoom sa pyar karne vala diya mujhko,
Aur vo bhi cheen liya,
Ae khuda tune manga bhi mujhse to kya maanga

the devil in hell is constant, reminding as a tombstone -
each and every knock-knock - my imagination resides
in this hellish equivalent of life lived elsewhere -
for the devil in hell is merely a tombstone with
a living inscription that's a clock rather than epitaph and
insignificant dates given Darwinism
and the Big Bag - i.e. 1779 and August
and the 7th makes little difference - or none at all -
oh how welcome buried to be imprinted within
minding anonymous - hell and the tombstone -
an enlarging of life not lived -
or heaven, well, even Dante described Hell
with prefrontal cortex exactness -
Dante's inferno dealt with more detail -
the paradise left to abstracts;
and so the netherworld spoke toward
mortal interests incubated as apt resource
for expression in what aerodynamic was to be
in a lepidopteris catching magritte umbrellas
with accented whirls - like pebble skipping
on the shattering of the Narcissus mirror
to hold sway of reality, worded: how you aged,
while the lake remained standstill intact -
whenever the philosopher inspected you even
more frequently than Sisyphus;
many climbed the highest peak
to only watch the Sisyphus boulder roll with their
bravery downhill -
but so few sat like stones about to be thrown
across the pristine mirage of the awaited
plagiarism of your first inkling into the shallow
depths - for indeed demigod assured -
embryo of thought, missing artist,
missing a self-portrait - what say you
to claim near-role of Poseidon?
i expect you'd only quack van Gogh -
and feel less inclined to imbue thought of mirror
as thought of beauty as self-worth and
the mind preserving it - rather than a mind
inclined to translate the stillness of the lake
into compressed aluminium and chewed sand for
the seen-through; a paradoxical world:
so much worth ascribed to so little -
and so little worth ascribed to so much -
this world is not worth a human zenith -
nor the nadir of insect savagery -
not the curtail phantom of scientific theatrical excavations,
nor the complaint of humanism attached similarly to
the same theatre -
mine assured the Chinese fairy-tale of a poet-drinker -
restless in metabolism, but when auburn comes named
Autumn, or spring and the Japanese cherry trees
of hanami - the low-caste infuriates mindful spectacles
of how to cross a busy urban crossroad of traffic
and look less at app. with additions for a minute's
silence among 15 minutes of modern crave of holy grail fame,
long lost among the objective success no
individual can profess - but specie kindred ha-yah,
ohayō - manga sigh you - conning chihuahua -
they **** and the English limit of theology, pronoun
debacle he v. she - V-she - mate, an E! an E! if theology
is to be so debated no longer the existence is to be debased
and atheism acquired - albeit not Oriental atheism of
Jackie Chew kangaroo karate - more like
addicts in a gym with fast-food exercises joining the
granny club of arthritis and bad joints;
'cos you're a bunch of wankers and that's that -
you smoke those opiates! you do! never was a Pole
more vocal than with the European Union -
embark on inviting the Turk! the coup is over!
invite the Turk! invite the Albanian! invite the Serb!
the Brit is leaving! hello Scootland!

I am a nerd
Who finds pleasure in books of fiction
Of life in fiction
Of pain from fiction
A fragment of my being
I am nothing without a book

I am a nerd
Who finds pleasure in comic books
Whose mind comes alive in their pages
Of heroes and their sidekicks
Of villains and their lovely vile
I am nothing without a book

I am a nerd
Who finds pleasure in rock as a religion
It's transitions and it's leads
Metal as a denomination
So electric; I come
Alive over and again
I am nothing without my music

I am a nerd
Who finds pleasure in Mangas
Their Naive heroes and their half clad villains
Their pervasions and their strengths
Their one-on-one battles and defeats
Their awesome storytelling and the twists
I am nothing without my Manga

I am a nerd
Who finds pleasure in video games
The difficulty levels and their walkthroughs
The vibrations and the boss fights
The sleepless nights and the highs
The shouts of victory and the barrage of curses
I am nothing without my Video games

I am a nerd
Who finds pleasure in surfing
The endless chasm of the world wide
Web, of knowledge and terrifying ignorance
Of horrors and uplifting humor
From one end to the never ending
I am nothing without the Internet

I am proud to be all of these and more

I Am Nerd.

Shiddat se jise manga hai
Kya tum wohi **?


Jiski Shayaari mein **
ek meetha sa junoon
Kya tum wohi **?

Fitrat jiski ** Farishton si
Kya tum wohi **?

Innayat ** jisme ittar sa
Kya tum wohi **?


Nazron mein jiske **
sab bande  khuda ke
Kya tum wohi **?

Tarranum mein
talaasha jise
Kya tum wohi **?

Rooh mein bas jaaye jo
Kya tum wohi **?

Shiddat se jise manga hai
Kya tum wohi **?

By Nabs
Dear, My Past Self
I've always wanted to say a lot of things to you.
A lot of things that I would like you to change.
A lot of things I wished that you haven't done
(Like chanting hate to your self before you went to sleep).

But that is not the reason I am sending this letter.

We both know how the past cannot be changed, the same way we both know that girls will be girls and boys will be boys (which to say not at all, after all we are a firm believer that time travel and The Doctor exist).

I know that you are going through a lot of forked roads, right now.
Gnawing your lips and making it bleed, from worrying whether to choose right or left?
Afraid, not to take the wrong road but to take the road that you want, the third road that you've always thought off but haven't gathered enough courage to step to.
It's okay to be afraid of where will you get stranded in life. Being afraid doesn't make you weak.

But at the end we have to move forwards even if it will literally kills you to leave the breathtaking view behind.

At this point in your life, You will realize that the handful of people that you surround your self with are more of an aquantaince than friends. And you will lose some of the friends you have because of the directions you each choose to go. You will feel lonely and miserable.

A deceptive man called depression will lull you with the promise of kindred spirits and ask you to let him be your companion. You will accept this offer, not fully knowing the Concequences because Depression, in your neighborhood, is something that goes unacknowledged.

You will regret the decision of taking his hands
(He's a good friend of mine now, I know how to deal with his quirks and how to cope with him living in my home. He still ask me to join him in drowning, but I learned how to say no)

    There will also be a lot of people telling you that you are a freak. They will consider that being true to yourself is a sin and you will try to repent by torturing your self with soul leeching mask that will leave you identity in tattered remains (You will spent years trying to piece it back, taking new pieces and discarding old ones).

They will also paint names on your back, whispers lies and making a game on how much they can stab you in one day. (You always come home bleeding, but you covered it with 1000 watt smile and perfume to mask that fact that the wounds are rotting)

Do not try revenge, it will leave you with a guilt so heavy that the act it self would only taste like ashes and sour your heart. (I know how horrible that is, and I know you'll still do it because this letter isn't about changing the past)

Remember that you have an untapped core of titanium in your backbone.

I know you will spend some sleepless night thinking of ways to not wake up in the morning, how to keep dreaming, and letting the ghost take you away. I know how close you are to the temptation and how you almost bitten that forbidden fruit because you wonder if it taste like peace. I also know that you will deny yourself.

(Because that's the lesson that was taught to us since the beginning )

Society may tell you, to **** all the things that are different in you. The things that make you see a shade differently, the things that make your angle on the world askew, the thing that you were (and still is) proud of. You will ask why, and they will reply because you are not perfect.

Do not listen to them because a few months from now you'll learn that their reasons are poison and you had been fed spoiled milk all along.
(You'll get some stomach ache that will feel like butterfly wings, you will mistake it for infatuation. It's not. You'll learn that infatuations taste like sugar and the coffee that you'll grow to like)

At this point, You will also painstakingly build a shrine, made of ivory and desperation, for the one you mistaken as a saint (she's not but she's still one of the best things that happen to you). A shrine for a saint that you tried to be, a saint that was hailed from loneliness and envy.  

The shrine will be the invisible wall that you will simultaneously try to tear apart while build it everyday. You will always be the one who ask for forgiveness because you were a faithful believer who believe that you are a despicable sinner.

(You are as much as a sinner as she is a saint.)

The day that you look her in the eyes and burn the shrine, the wall will crumble and fall like the Berlin Wall. Both of you will become human ( Also you will find that she is easily bribed with pizza and you will find that you are different than her and that's ok).

You will also learn the taste of despair from the way the mother dove cannot understand that your screams are the way you say that you are breaking and you just want to quit breathing. Instead mother dove will translate it into screams of rebellion, and you were always the obedient daughter first, than you are a teenage girl.

(You will learn how to jab your scream into paper, and turn them into poems. You will truly make some bad ones at first. Don't worry I'll help you along the way)

One day, between where you are now and where I am now, the world will give you a present of awareness to the danger of smiling to strangers. You will cry in the hotel bathroom and try to scrub your skin until it bleeds, trying to feel clean but only managed to ***** the tub. The world and mother dove will tell you that its your fault and you were asking for it (You're not).

You will lose the ability to smile uncaringly.
(This is one of the things I wish we would have keep)

You will slowly watch the colors that you know fade from the world, leaving it a mottled grey. The same state that you are feeling now. You will paint lies and invent new colors to just make you believe that there is something worth living for. You will hate your self more and more for your new painting skills.

Don't hate your self, You are a survivor and you are still fighting (I know you wouldn't listen to this, that you would keep hating your self until you met some people who will be kind to you and help you hold up your forts from the monster inside your skin. Like I said this isn't that kind of letter).

I know that the day you smashed all your anger and hurt into the table that you sleep on, was the day where you first tried to draw red lines with sharp markers on yourself. It will be messy but you were addicted and soon all you can paint was release and the occasional victorian girl

(You will not draw boys because you despise the way that you cannot draw wide board shoulders, like the one you hate on your self but admire on your brothers because those shoulders look like they could carry the world unlike yours).

You will lock your emotions tight, and learn how to hide from the world (It wouldn't last long, you have the universe inside you that is screaming to be shared to people. You haven't learned how to say no yet, unlike me)

You will learn that you are also an idiot, that karma exist and it bites you in the *** as a payback for all those tyranny. You will laugh your self until you're sobbing and fallen asleep. The next day you will bring a book to educate yourself to your school.

You will be turned into a mess of paint, anger, bitterness, and dramatic flair. The only one that will be left without blemish will be the mask (not the face beneath). The woodcutters will saw your legs of from you, and you will be left without the means to stand on the ground

But you still will crawl your miserable 90 kilogram mass of body to the next crossroad, and the next, and the next, and the next, like the stubborn mule you (we) are.

And you will came out of the personal purgatory, that the world gave you, with a brand new legs, soul liberally littered with scars, and a tuft wings on your back (Albeit still very tiny. It's okay, It's still growing).

You will learn to walk again with your new legs, the one that isn't smooth like baby skin but full with callouses from all the road walking.

You will learn that being full of flaws is ok, that not being beautiful is fine.

You will also learn that you are allergic to cats (You will deny this fact when you find out until you almost passed out because you couldn't breathe. But we will still cuddle with them because cats are the best)

You will meet new people, wonderful new people. The ones that you care so very much and the one that cares for you back. The ones that's just wonky like you. (You will love this guy and girl that I am close with, they're very kind and sappy like you are)

You will get to fall in love, like in the romance manga that you secretly love, and you will broke your own heart (I wanted to say for you to savor it more, but like I said this isn't that kind of letter).

You will be ok with it, and you'll gain the skills of cutting people from your life

You will learn that the world isn't kind to your gender, and you'll ask for equality ( the same way you're asking for a new set of paint, which is to say with a lot of care and thinking). You will learn that the world will always be a ******* but there will always be change.

(The world needs its balance)
You will learn that patience isn't really your virtue. But you will learn to grit your teeth and wait.

You will learn to love your self. Even at some point the hate still managed to rear its ugly head. You will learn to be proud of your self and yet still be kind.

And you will continue to write your own story, you will make mistakes and learn from them, you will make unexpected plot twist and pull your favorite cliche. You will learn that not all people like your story and that it's okay.

That is so very okay.

This letter isn't about telling you to change yourself.

It's my way of saying thank you.

Because darling, ****** well done (pun intended)
                                    Love, Your Future Self

P.S :
(This isn't the end, how about we meet up for tea later?)

.

page one
it starts with the wave of a hand
a simple introduction
'hi, what's your name?'
it starts with looking and seeing nothing but what is there
skin and bones and blemishes and human
it starts with feeling no cliche butterflies in your stomach
and no additional voice in your head
amongst the others
and no rapid pulse in your still-beating heart

page two
somewhere along the way the waves turn into inside jokes and small smiles
crinkles by the corners of eyes
and light chuckles
and glancing just a millisecond too long

page three
and, well, glancing just a million times too often

page four
and you write poems in attempts to make yourself believe
to drown yourself in denial
to avoid confronting the - nonexistent - blooming bud growing
sprouting from all angled corners
and cracking curves
and jagged edges of you

page five
spoiler: it doesn't work

page six
and it's strange because apart from seeing what is there you see more
or really you don't see what is there
you see what you want to be there

page seven
you see skin and bones and beauty and freckles and stars and constellations in eyes and ethereal -

page eight
perfection

page nine
except perfection doesn't exist
and what you see doesn't exist
it's just your unrealistic expectations piled up from miles and smiles of movies and books and manga and everything

page nine
and you know this

page nine
but it goes into one ear and out the other

page nine
and it doesn't stop you from claiming

page nine
you're in love

page ten
if love is just infatuation with a physical manifestation of your ideals without their consent
then i guess you're right

page eleven
there are butterflies bending, banging on you, begging to be released

you wonder when your definition of beauty became a name and a face
and you wonder when love became synonymous to pain

page twelve
the butterflies turn into birds and then bears and then freaking buildings
except these building are moving and apparently earthquake proof because you can't seem to break them down
instead the buildings are breaking you down

but the truth is no, no they aren't
don't you see?
you're breaking yourself down

how do you heal if you are both the poison and the antidote?

page thirteen
if only you could rewrite the story
but how could you?
how do you rip the pages
how do you erase the sickeningly sweet
slow stabs slicing through your spine every time a smile is sent your way
how do you mute the thudding in your brain telling you that this could never be
how do you ignore the extra echoes in your head yelling at you to get yourself together

how do you get yourself together?

page fourteen
you've been asking so many questions lately
but you know the answer to all of them

page fifteen
there's a small voice
a minuscule, malevolent voice whispering maybe
whispering maybe and perhaps and potentially
maybe you're not the only one who wants to hold on just a little longer

page sixteen
but see
it's funny how the story starts with two people and now it's just one person with an overactive imagination
illustrating a person as something more
something better

page seventeen
but you're not creative enough to keep your illusion for too long
and soon you start to see less of what you want to be there and more of what is there
skin and bones and blemishes
and human

human

page eighteen
human is ugly and human is cruel and human is wretched
but human is somewhat
beautiful
in its ugliness
and human is raw in all its dishonestly
and human is real
even if you made it out not to be

page nineteen
you will never truly now human
you will never truly know anyone or anything that isn't a figment of your imagination
but it's enough

page twenty
it starts with seeing nothing but what is there
skin and bones and blemishes
and human
and then it ends
the story ends somewhere
anywhere really
but it ends

I'm considered to be nerdy
Awkward, not flirty.

They call me gay,
Because I Cosplay.

I must be a dork
Because Zelda's my lord,
And she's way cooler than any sport.

Could someone love me?
That couldn't be.

I watch too much anime,
And BBC.

I praise The doctor and Spock.
Even Sherlock.
Cause in my opinion
They're better than jocks.

Being nerdy is quite fun,
But you make me sound dumb.

We're accepting and caring
But please stop staring.

Am I making this boring?
Don't start snoring..

Just give me a chance.
I'll make it last.

We could play Skyrim or league.
Wait, don't leave!

I can be cool,
Just like you!

I can calculate big numbers in my head,
Or make a fortress out of my bed

I can be an ork, elf, or spy.
Just as long as it's allowed by the die.

I can cast spells online.
Don't worry, you'll be fine!

I can role play to the extreme!!!
That's right, I call it d&d.;

I'm proud to be a geek.
Yes, we're very neet!

We know our facts!
We're anime maniacs.

I'm good at mtg!
It takes skill to be like me.

I'm cool I tell you!
I'm grand.

But at the same time,
You don't make me feel great.

I'm a loser,
A dork

No, I don't like baseball, football, or hockey
I can't bench and I don't lift.

But I go to some pretty intense parties...
On Xbox.

My heart is bigger than my head..
No, not literally.

I'd bring you a rose
And write you a poem

You'd be my Rory.
This isn't the end of the story.

I'd love you more than
video games, Star Wars, and D&D.;

In the end,
You're always my MVP.

You don't have to lie,
I know you'll decline..

but my feelings won't change.
They'll always be the same.

Maybe I'd be cool..
If I were with you.

But that'll never be
Because you fail to see OTP.

Then again,
It's all good in the end
Because..

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Manga costs less
Than dinner for two.

Smooth, smooth, fringed by yellow smudged, hard plastic
smooth, left to right then a painterly inconclusive running
out, the stroke all 60” expires into the yellow, then a firm
vertical orange stripe, a bookend, a hot surface elevated
upon a warm yellow bed, exotic, turmeric, heated from
below, as though from another world, a future planet found
in Manga, gum wrappers, belonging to the wedding
wardrobes of older women, and those with impossible
shoes, maybe a scarf, definitely lipstick and small Japanese
cars, decorative paper, a can’t-miss logo, as when I close
my eyes in the act of love, holding your kneeling body to
me I lose myself in a pattern of flashes, the bright play of
light and colour, a sensual play of pigment, blue and red
wavelengths, fuchsine, electric, electric, and the aura of
artists, such latent energy, hidden passion, rich in ******
fragrance, edged with desire.

The path of the brush now right to left yellow exposes a
yellow bookend at the left hand edge, there is a roughness
here in its covering of yellow, as though applied in haste or
in a single gesture with a large brush, it is thick, thick and
rough, but the yellow is almost present, a hint, a reflection,
as in the petals of the Bellis Perennis, you open your mouth
breathing, breathing your lips frame such perfect teeth as
day arrives,

Left to right, the paint thick then thinning to a broken
tailpiece revealing yellow on magenta, again, again, again, again,
how little I yet understand your body, the innerness,
the sheltered regions of your desire, I am afraid to harm this
preciousness, be disrespectful of the tapering valley where
love’s caress and kiss meet, are multi-dimensional, the
rectangle is not charcoal, but deflected, hesitant, to the left
the darkness of chocolate, to the right a greyness, a *****
grey, a dusty dark dog, loamed, a depth then play of
shadow, dark, textural as your maidenhair under the covers
above my right hand as it spreads my fingers across its
darkness into deeper darkness, a flat stone, its left end
washed by the cold tide, olived, clothed in mourning, there
is unpleasantness, some distaste, a little fear, the unknown,
the unknowable.

Daisy petals, opening in the morning light, the clapperboard
house on the Block Island beachside fresh-painted every
spring, immediately weathered, porcelained sea shell
textured, turned, tumbled, a dawn sky after rain,
ceramicised fungi, plain flour, acidic, taut, the moment
when the heart and breath seem to pause as we join each
other’s flesh as though this cannot be cannot really be.

Unrhymable this flower shade hued pigment deep saffron
vibrant, phoned, not quite of the fruit, a different tang,
sharper without sheen, magenta beneath its smoothed
surface up to left and right edge, (but for the yellow
frill beneath), lip covering, silk-scarfed, not autumnal yet, but oh
those Californian poppies, those desert landscapes as the
sun sets,

a single uneven gesture thrown left to right, an island
in silhouette with a rocky foreshore spreads into distance,

a bed of sylvan jade, an oasis, this an aerial view of tree
tops modulating to grassy pasture, a down-stroke western
boundary, an edge of surf on its northern border, perhaps
the brush formerly coloured has left its trace,

the main body of this Australian desert seen from the air,
Sidney Nolan’s bush, aboriginal earth, coloured mud,
unguent, the sense of liquid in your kiss, its warmth, the
very tip and corner of your lips, the brush of hair as you
move your head to my chest, the rubbing of hair on hair,
under your arms this play of sensation through the lips’
touch, then the shore, the sand no sand though, only in the
brochures, daffodilled perhaps, unsmudged, fresh,
vigorously golden, well-watered.

Tokyo
By Anthony Caceres

Flashing lights, Flashing people
Blurs of the past come to haunt
Blurs of the present come to taunt
Blurs of the future come to flaunt
Sitting here by the bus stop
Watching people fly by like the airplanes above
Everybody set their bodies to fast forward
While I’m rewinding as slow as I can
Reading the latest manga as I get ****** into the lights
Like some late night ramen
I feel like I can walk on air
A skywalker
I can’t escape the death walkers
I know
But I can slow them down, to a point
With a late night text
and the horns of rampaging cars
Busses and Bikes
Awkward mannerisms
and long hikes
Tokyo is far away
But as long as your still here with me
Tokyo will forever stay

By Elena Ramos©
1
Todays my last day of School before I graduate, go to the University and the most important thing summer vacations, I just hope to be accepted in a good University, and I am talking seriously. All my entire friends are going to travel or do something incredible as always before they start the University, but I cant. My vacations are boring, watch movies at home,I just visit  my grandparents house, or watch tennis games with my dad and brothers. I am the second son of four kids, Julian is the older, I am next, Ryan the third and Georgina the small one. My mother name is Lauren Parker but she was diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (CFS) which is basically a sickness that do not **** you but makes your life harder, not only physically but mentally also. Mom started to feel fatigued, loss her concentration constantly and memory, extremely pain in her muscles, and a inexplicable headache. It is a little bit hard for all of us because even if mom is alive she cant do anything for us, she started feeling this way after Gerogina was born, that was sixteen years ago. My dad Julian is the one who suffers the most, they cant do any activity toguether, even watching Tennis Chanel is hard for her, she is more time sleeping than what she spend awake. Georginas sweet sixteen just passed and sadly mom couldn’t  help her to plan the party. All the boys of the house, we help her to plan it, but our ideas **** up that much that she almost cancel the party. Even so, she did it, and she had a good time, all her friends came and dance a lot, my brother Julian buy her some alcohol because he is more than twenty one, and brought some friends with him supposedly to supervise everything and have things calm. Dad was not in the party because  he trusted Julian that everything was going to be fine. All Julian friends were wasted but for my sisters friends they were cool, so at the end we all have fun. Right now is almost Lunch, that means school will end soon. Arnold my best friend of all my life, is sitting next to me making some jokes about Mrs. Frances horrible make up, like if she did it in the dark. I cant believe that during my entire life I did not talk to Mary the hottest girl in the entire school. Her hair so light brown, her beautiful smile, her blue eyes, and her incredible capacity of being the best student of Seattle’s High School make me fall in love of her, sadly I was never able to speak to her, not even a hello in the cafeteria line. Girls like her make boys feel stupid for even believe we have a chance with them. Even Arnold feel the same way with her, just that he is not able to admit it, because he thinks we can fight for her and end our friendship. Lunch is here, we are meeting Sarah a friend of us, but she is a junior, sadly we wont graduate with her. We had this little pact that the three us were going to the same University together and that Sarah was going to meet us the next year too. Seattle pacific University is our best option for now. They offer Arnold a half scholarship, something awesome that I wish could happen to me, thanks god my parents save money for school during their entire life. I live in Seattle the largest city of Washington, Sara mom reserve a table tonight for the three of us to celebrate were out of school in the space needle. Later we can got to a party or something alike, definitely tonight were having some fun. We just meet Sara in the hallway.
-Hey donkies!-said Sarah-
-Hello Sarah-I said in a sarcastic mood. She is an incredible person, probably with the only girl I being so close to. We have even sleep together, I mean the three of us, sometimes when its get to  late and we have a lot to study.
-Nerd, how you doing?-ask Arnold to Sarah.
-Great airhead, cool that your almost graduated!-.reply Sarah.
-Yeah, is pretty awesome that we make it until here, I am ready for the University, imagine how many pretty girls would be there waiting for a nerd to do their homeworks or a shoulder to cry after a break with her boyfriend-Arnold laugh.
-Yes, your still an ******* inmature, I cant believe you have a half scholarship-Sarah said.
-Its fine the two of you, let quick so we can make it to the cafeteria line, before all those ******* of the football team-I said.
The cafeteria was still empty, we made it before the athletes. I even said goodbye to the lady who served the food. She was nice to me, she serve me more green grapes or more French fries every Tuesday. This is one of the things I will miss the most from the school, too many memories, things that with the time I will forget, i wish to have more time here, I guess I love my school, or I am scared of growing up, and becoming an adult. We sat in the last table of the cafeteria, I wanted to observe all the room for the last time, full of people I used to know. It is funny how ironic the day gets, you desire this last day of school all your life, but when it comes, you want to fall back again to the first day of school where you start everything, where you meet your best friend of all your life, Arnold and Sarah in this case, your first breakup or your first party, or the day you kiss a girl for the first time, something it has not happened to me yet. I want it to be real and true, I know it sounds funny, but I am still a old school boy, when its related to how treats ladies. Even if I had the chance to be with one I will never do something, first of all because I respect them a lot, I always think of Georgina, I will treat girls the way I wish my sister be treated someday by a dude.
-In what your thinking Alex?-ask Sarah eating in a silly way her sandwich.
I reply-Well, to be honest I am sad-
Arnold laugh instantly after my answer-how you dare to say your sad, if you were always saying you wanted to graduated and getting the hell out of here-.
-I know I said it, but think in this, what will happen after we graduate, we wont see you often Sarah, you will have new friends, Arnold you will be busy meeting new girls and being a Casanova, and I probably will be in my dorm reading some Mangas, or listening music, or worst talking with my family.-I said.
-Don’t worry Alex it wont happen, I bet you wont do skype with your family only once every six months, I swear. Don’t take your mangas collection, you will seem yourself weird and nerd, not to offend you but its true, and yes I will be a Casanova, hope god listen you-.Arnold said in a inspirational mood.
-Thanks dude, you’re the best-I said to Arnold – and about my manga collection I don’t promess you nothing, I gues that instead of taking the all I will only take ten, and read the rest online-.
-I cant believe your sad Alex, I wish to be graduating now, I cant handle one year anymore-said Sarah.
-Well your day will come soon Sarah, your senior year will be awesome I promess-I said.
While everyone was getting ready for the last period of class I couldn’t take my eyes off Mary, beautiful face. She was wearing this beautiful white dress, with her pink Vans. All I can said she look like an angel,her breast was incredible good locking, all in her was just perfect. Sadly she was dating someone bigger than her, he picked up her always after school, all I can said is that a lady like her deserve something better, a men that respect her, take care, and treat her delicately; but that ****, dressed like a lazy men, his hair was awful, the loudness of his music was horrible, and he smoked in her face, I mean at 2 centimeters from her face. Sometimes I said to myself she deserves me, even if it was a crazy idiot idea I knew I could treat her as the lady she was and make her happy.

Bell just ring, last class period, maybe the teacher will said some last words and school stuff be decline today. I just want it to end now, I want it to be night, I want to go to any good party we were not invited but we enter anyway. Sara mom was too gentile in paying a dinner for the three of us. I guess that school will end but I feel its time to wake up a part of me I never knew it existed; the free man. ©

CHAPTER 2 SOON ...

have you noticed me yet?
XD
anyways here's a challenge for you guys cause i cant seem to write this week:
write a poem about your very own senpai (real or fake) and how you try to get hm/her to notice you and tag it as #noticemesenpai
:D ive written so much about my own lol i dont need to write anymore....
(inspired by dani chase's poem, Senpai >//////<)
and if you don't know what a senpai is:
"It originates from anime and manga. It's someone older than you. Someone you look up to. If they give the slightest attention to you, you sort of explode. They are just really admired by you and if you are a senpai, bask in it!"
-http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Senpai
cause urban dictionary is legit cx^

Hello my name is Neroamee
Alucard if your nasty
and I'm a nerd,
I've gone through most of my life
socially awkward
Now you'd think at the age of 19
I would've gone out of my cocoon
and become a social butterfly
but I'm a walking Pariah
I'm not even close to fly
Just for liking manga and listening to music
that is older than me
I ended up ostracized
but I did gain friends
and we became like family.
So yes my Name is Neroamee
and yes I am awkward socially
I'll admit I'm sensitive, a nerd and don't fit into a culture homogenously
but I promise you this
you'll never encounter someone like me,
I guarantee you this

My biggest fear has nothing to do
     with monsters, the dark, death,
     or any of those usual frights.
No, my most intense scare comes
     from the anticipation that one day
     you may see me the same way
     I see myself.
For you see I'm not the girl that guys
     conjure up in their daydreams.
I could never hope to pass as one
     of those flitty girly-girls who know
     of quizzical things such as
               make-up
               cute hairstyles
               or fashion.
My blemishes show, and honestly
     I haven't a clue how to hide them
     anyway.
I look at braided hair, beachy waves,
     and effortless updos with envy
     My hair has two styles: up or down.
I've never in my life looked casually cute,
     and am obviously uncomfortable
     in a dress.  Please just pass me
     my jeans and t-shirt back,
     I'm much more myself in them.
     How does one even walk in heels?
I'd like to think I'm one of those
     "cool" girls that guys claim
     they love, the low-maintenance
     type chick, but I don't think
     I'm "cool" at all, really.
When guys describe those chicks,
     they do things like
               play video games
               quote Star Wars
               read comic books
     like some ideal gorgeous geek.
Well that's **** sure not me either.
     I **** at video games,
     love Star Wars, but
     I'm terrible with movie references,
     and have never read comics.
     Does manga count?
     I'm kind of starting to get into that...
I'm not the nerd's epitome of perfection
     either, the everyman's ideal.
So what am I? I'm just boring,
     little ole me.
I love to read, and would rather
     spend the night reading
     or watching something than go out.
I'm shy and self-conscious to a fault,
     so don't try bringing me around
     friends, I'll just bring you down.
Honestly, I'm basically a child. I love
               Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
               Gargoyles
               Tom & Jerry
               Animaniacs
     and cartoons in general.
I'm quiet and contemplative, often caught
     writing in my notebook,
     detailing my observations
     about the world around me.
I have a ***** mind and a messed-up
     sense of humor, giggling
     of the worst times occasionally.
But all in all, I think of myself
     as pretty boring.  Laidback,
     but with the most capricious of moods.
     I'm both low and high maintenance.
I don't know why you think positively
     of me, but I anticipate the day
     you realize I'm really nothing
     special at all.
The day you discover the truth
     I already know all too well.

I laugh all time
    but with him
I giggle non-stop
Cause Life's too complicated
&  He makes me Thinkin' to something else
like *** , like couple , like other's life , like win

I crie too much
    but with him
I crie mucher than that
Cause Life's Unfair
& He makes me See different thinks
like other problem , others couple problems , like drama , like lose

For Some poeple it caled Boyfriend
For Some Other it caled Husband
For Some Otaku it caled Manga-anime
For Some Geeks it caled **Games

I tried not to end up, like,
one of those girls that only cry,
but i got myself wrapped in drama,
of fictional characters that always die.

I got my head up in the clouds,
waiting for someone to set me free,
to set the shivers down my spine,
so senpai, please notice me.

Lisa and I were watching one of our favorite series last night, a Japanese manga called “The Way of the Househusband” and I could barely keep my eyes open. I went to bed at a decent hour (11:30) but when I got in bed, I couldn’t sleep, I just laid there. It was rude and caused me to oversleep.

I don’t mean to brag, but I can go from oversleeping, to bushed and showered in less than 15 minutes, I’m really a marvel of efficiency (with still wet hair), especially since we wear scrubs.
I grabbed my iPad, stuffed it in my rucksack, and hey, I was ready to go.

In the living room, it took me a moment to situate myself - it was a very noisy and disorienting environment - what with Lisa yelling at me for running late, but soon we were off.

Just a girl, her lemon ginger Kombucha, and her angry roommate, ready to face the world.

We stepped out into the morning and.. Ughh! I’d forgotten my AirPods. I double checked, not there.
Lisa gives me a threatening look. “PLEASE,” I begged, desperately, “MY AIRPODS!”
“OH, my GOD!” Lisa said, glancing, irritatedly at the Apple Watch I gave her for her birthday.

I ran up the stairs and was back in NO time, really, really ready to go.
Just a girl, her Kombucha, AirPods and angrier roommate, ready to face the world.

My sister’s apartment is about 7 walking minutes from the hospital. As we were walking, I had my AirPods in and was rolling with Kanye. I in NO way endorse his CrAzY. But If I start the day out, with “Through the Wire” and “Jesus walks,” I’m tweaked for whatever gamut Rebecca (my surgeon) has in store for me. I paused the slaps, momentarily, as we passed a herd of boys, but I was bouncing again in a blink.

Lisa and I are in the second week of our two-month, summer fellowships - shadowing surgeons (different surgeons) for “clinical experience.” The first thing I do every workday morning is bring Rebecca a large coffee (from the cafeteria). She comes in at 5:30am every morning of the week and leaves God-knows-when - certainly, well after we do at 4:30pm.

She spends the three hours before I come in, reviewing patient notes and surgical plans. I gently rapped on her open door. She doesn’t look up, but she knows it’s me.
“Good morning,” I whisper, Rebecca’s seated at her desk, working on her laptop. I set the coffee on her right side and after I remove the pre-existing empty cups, I hesitate.

“What’s up,” she says, leaning into her screen to check something as she keys to enlarge it.
“I have a small question,” I say, “Are we supposed to be filling out timecards?” She doesn’t say anything, continuing to examine the - whatever. After a few seconds, I added:
“Quinn said we have to fill out timecards.”

“Did he?” Rebacca asked, rhetorically, after a bit. She’d stopped studying the screen and gotten a faraway look. Then, after another moment, she said, “Well, bless his heart,” which made me chuckle, because we’re both southern girls and that’s shorthand for “f**k him.”

“Thank you.” she says (for the coffee). I’d been dismissed.
We have rounds in twenty minutes.

I have been left
            floating
     my arms out
in mid-action
as if to stop
what might have always
             inevitably come        
                   and I am dangling
above forest and brush
            above wild animals
          who look at me
in wonder
my goddess energy
in temporary shock
      my grief
billowing behind me
like an 18th century gown
in a black cloud of mourning
it threatens to
drown me completely
but my secret weapon
      is to let it ride its course
              to feel it in all intensity
For I know
this will pass
I will be ok
and so I let it go
untethered
like a river's rushing current
like a pocket of turbulence
like a storm that whips up,
engulfing quiet
in sudden froth
my hair flows
      like a manga warrioress,
about to strike
her revenge upon the Earth
rage in arrows that pummel
your confused, bruised heart
where truth hides
within layers
upon layers of
     veiled
night air

Desde el amanecer, se cambia la ropa sucia de los altares y de los santos, que huele a rancia bendición, mientras los plumeros inciensan una nube de polvo tan espesa, que las arañas apenas hallan tiempo de levantar sus redes de equilibrista, para ir a ajustarías en los barrotes de la cama del sacristán.

Con todas las características del criminal nato lombrosiano, los apóstoles se evaden de sus nichos, ante las vírgenes atónitas, que rompen a llorar... porque no viene el peluquero a ondularles las crenchas.

Enjutos, enflaquecidos de insomnio y de impaciencia, los nazarenos pruébanse el capirote cada cinco minutos, o llegan, acompañados de un amigo, a presentarle la virgen, como si fuera su querida.

Ya no queda por alquilar ni una cornisa desde la que se vea pasar la procesión.

Minuto tras minuto va cayendo sobre la ciudad una manga de ingleses con una psicología y una elegancia de langosta.

A vista de ojo, los hoteleros engordan ante la perspectiva de doblar la tarifa.

Llega un cuerpo del ejército de Marruecos, expresamente para sacar los candelabros y la custodia del tesoro.

Frente a todos los espejos de la ciudad, las mujeres ensayan su mirada "Smith Wesson"; pues, como las vírgenes, sólo salen de casa esta semana, y si no cazan nada, seguirán siéndolo...
¡Campanas!
¡Repiqueteo de campanas!
¡Campanas con café con leche!
¡Campanas que nos imponen una cadencia al
abrocharnos los botines!
¡Campanas que acompasan el paso de la gente que pasa en las aceras!
¡Campanas!
¡Repiqueteo de campanas!

En la catedral, el rito se complica tanto, que los sacerdotes necesitan apuntador.

Trece siglos de ensayos permiten armonizar las florecencias de las rejas con el contrapaso de los monaguillos y la caligrafía del misal.

Una luz de "Museo Grevin" dramatiza la mirada vidriosa de los cristos, ahonda la voz de los prelados que cantan, se interrogan y se contestan, como esos sapos con vientre de prelado, una boca predestinada a engullir hostias y las manos enfermas de reumatismo, por pasarse las noches -de cuclillas en el pantano- cantando a las estrellas.

Si al repartir las palmas no interviniera una fuerza sobrenatural, los feligreses aplaudirían los rasos con que la procesión sale a la calle, donde el obispo -con sus ochenta kilos de bordados- bate el "record" de dar media vuelta a la manzana y entra nuevamente en escena, para que continúe la función...
¡Agua!
¡Agüita fresca!
¿Quién quiere agua?

En un flujo y reflujo de espaldas y de brazos, los acorazados de los cacahueteros fondean entre la multitud, que espera la salida de los "pasos" haciendo "pan francés".

Espantada por los flagelos de papel, la codicia de los pilletes revolotea y zumba en torno a las canastas de pasteles, mientras los nazarenos sacian la sed, que sentirán, en tabernas que expenden borracheras garantizadas por toda la semana.

Sin asomar las narices a la calle, los santos realizan el milagro de que los balcones no se caigan.

¡Agua!
¡Agüita fresca!
¿Quién quiere agua?
pregonan los aguateros al servirnos una reverencia de minué.

De repente, las puertas de la iglesia se abren como las de una esclusa, y, entre una doble fila de nazarenos que canaliza la multitud, una virgen avanza hasta las candilejas de su paso, constelada de joyas, como una cupletista.

Los espectadores, contorsionados por la emoción,
arráncanse la chaquetilla y el sombrero, se acalambran en
posturas de capeador, braman piropos que los nazarenos intentan callar
como el apagador que les oculta la cabeza.

Cuando el Señor aparece en la puerta, las nubes se envuelven con un crespón, bajan hasta la altura de los techos y, al verlo cogido como un torero, todas, unánimemente, comienzan a llorar.

¡Agua!
¡Agüita fresca!
¿Quién quiere agua?Las tribunas y las sillas colocadas enfrente del Ayuntamiento progresivamente se van ennegreciendo, como un pegamoscas de cocina.

Antes que la caballería comience a desfilar, los guardias civiles despejan la calzada, por temor a que los cachetes de algún trompa estallen como una bomba de anarquista.

Los caballos -la boca enjabonada cual si se fueran a afeitar- tienen las ancas tan lustrosas, que las mujeres aprovechan para arreglarse la mantilla y averiguar, sin darse vuelta, quién unta una mirada en sus caderas.

Con la solemnidad de un ejército de pingüinos, los nazarenos escoltan a los santos, que, en temblores de debutante, representan "misterios" sobre el tablado de las andas, bajo cuyos telones se divisan los pies de los "gallegos", tal como si cambiaran una decoración.

Pasa:
El Sagrado Prendimiento de Nuestro Señor, y Nuestra Señora del Dulce Nombre.
El Santísimo Cristo de las Siete Palabras, y María Santísima de los Remedios.
El Santísimo Cristo de las Aguas, y Nuestra Señora del Mayor Dolor.
La Santísima Cena Sacramental, y Nuestra Señora del Subterráneo.
El Santísimo Cristo del Buen Fin, y Nuestra Señora de la Palma.
Nuestro Padre Jesús atado a la Columna, y Nuestra Señora de las Lágrimas.
El Sagrado Descendimiento de Nuestro Señor, y La Quinta Angustia de María Santísima.

Y entre paso y paso:
¡Manzanilla! ¡Almendras garrapiñadas! ¡Jerez!

Estrangulados por la asfixia, los "gallegos" caen de rodillas cada cincuenta metros, y se resisten a continuar regando los adoquines de sudor, si antes no se les llena el tanque de aguardiente.

Cuando los nazarenos se detienen a mirarnos con sus ojos vacíos, irremisiblemente, algún balcón gargariza una "saeta" sobre la multitud, encrespada en un ¡ole!, que estalla y se apaga sobre las cabezas, como si reventara en una playa.

Los penitentes cargados de una cruz desinflan el pecho de las mamas en un suspiro de neumático, apenas menos potente al que exhala la multitud al escaparse ese globito que siempre se le escapa a la multitud.

Todas las cofradías llevan un estandarte, donde se lee:

                      S. P. Q. R.Es el día en que reciben todas las vírgenes de la ciudad.

Con la mantilla negra y los ojos que matan, las hembras repiquetean sus tacones sobre las lápidas de las aceras, se consternan al comprobar que no se derrumba ni una casa, que no resucita ningún Lázaro, y, cual si salieran de un toril, irrumpen en los atrios, donde los hombres les banderillean un par de miraduras, a riesgo de dejarse coger el corazón.

De pie en medio de la nave -dorada como un salón-, las vírgenes expiden su duelo en un sólido llanto de rubí, que embriaga la elocuencia de prospecto medicinal con que los hermanos ponderan sus encantos, cuando no optan por alzarles las faldas y persuadir a los espectadores de que no hay en el globo unas pantorrillas semejantes.

Después de la vigésima estación, si un fémur no nos ha perforado un intestino, contemplamos veintiocho "pasos" más, y acribillados de "saetas", como un San Sebastián, los pies desmenuzados como albóndigas, apenas tenemos fuerza para llegar hasta la puerta del hotel y desplomarnos entre los brazos de la levita del portero.

El "menú" nos hace volver en sí. Leemos, nos refregamos los ojos y volvemos a leer:

"Sopa de Nazarenos."
"Lenguado a la Pío X."

-¡Camarero! Un bife con papas.
-¿Con Papas, señor?...
-¡No, hombre!, con huevos fritos.Mientras se espera la salida del Cristo del Gran Poder, se reflexiona: en la superioridad del marabú, en la influencia de Goya sobre las sombras de los balcones, en la finura chinesca con que los árboles se esfuman en el azul nocturno.

Dos campanadas apagan luego los focos de la plaza; así, las espaldas se amalgaman hasta formar un solo cuerpo que sostiene de catorce a diez y nueve mil cabezas.

Con un ritmo siniestro de Edgar Poe -¡cirios rojos ensangrientan sus manos!-, los nazarenos perforan un silencio donde tan sólo se percibe el tic-tac de las pestañas, silencio desgarrado por "saetas" que escalofrían la noche y se vierten sobre la multitud como un líquido helado.

Seguido de cuatrocientas prostitutas arrepentidas del pecado menos original, el Cristo del Gran Poder camina sobre un oleaje de cabezas, que lo alza hasta el nivel de los balcones, en cuyos barrotes las mujeres aferran las ganas de tirarse a lamerle los pies.

En el resto de la ciudad el resplandor de los "pasos" ilumina las caras con una técnica de Rembrandt. Las sombras adquieren más importancia que los cuerpos, llevan una vida más aventurera y más trágica. La cofradía del "Silencio", sobre todo, proyecta en las paredes blancas un "film" dislocado y absurdo, donde las sombras trepan a los tejados, violan los cuartos de las hembras, se sepultan en los patios dormidos.

Entre "saetas" conservadas en aguardiente pasa la "Macarena", con su escolta romana, en cuyas corazas de latón se trasuntan los espectadores, alineados a lo largo de las aceras.

¡Es la hora de los churros y del anís!

Una luz sin fuerza para llegar al suelo ribetea con tiza las molduras y las aristas de las casas, que tienen facha de haber dormido mal, y obliga a salir de entre sus sábanas a las nubes desnudas, que se envuelven en gasas amarillentas y verdosas y se ciñen, por último, una túnica blanca.

Cuando suenan las seis, las cigüeñas ensayan un vuelo matinal, y tornan al campanario de la iglesia, a reanudar sus mansas divagaciones de burócrata jubilado.

Caras y actitudes de chimpancé, los presidiarios esperan, trepados en las rejas, que las vírgenes pasen por la cárcel antes de irse a dormir, para sollozar una "saeta" de arrepentimiento y de perdón, mientras en bordejeos de fragata las cofradías que no han fondeado aún en las iglesias, encallan en todas las tabernas, abandonan sus vírgenes por la manzanilla y el jerez.

Ya en la cama, los nazarenos que nos transitan las circunvoluciones redoblan sus tambores en nuestra sien, y los churros, anidados en nuestro estómago, se enroscan y se anudan como serpientes.

Alguien nos destornilla luego la cabeza, nos desabrocha las costillas, intenta escamotearnos un riñón, al mismo tiempo que un insensato repique de campanas nos va sumergiendo en un sopor.

Después... ¿Han pasado semanas? ¿Han pasado minutos?... Una campanilla se desploma, como una sonda, en nuestro oído, nos iza a la superficie del colchón.
¡Apenas tenemos tiempo de alcanzar el entierro!...

¿Cuatrocientos setenta y ocho mil setecientos noventa y nueve "pasos" más?

¡Cristos ensangrentados como caballos de picador! ¡Cirios que nunca terminan de llorar! ¡Concejales que han alquilado un frac que enternece a las Magdalenas! ¡Cristos estirados en una lona de bombero que acaban de arrojarse de un balcón! ¡La Verónica y el Gobernador... con su escolta de arcángeles!

¡Y las centurias romanas... de Marruecos, y las Sibilas, y los Santos Varones! ¡Todos los instrumentos de la Pasión!... ¡Y el instrumento máximo, ¡la Muerte!, entronizada sobre el mundo..., que es un punto final!

¿Morir? ¡Señor! ¡Señor!
¡Libradnos, Señor!
¿Dormir? ¡Dormir! ¡Concedédnoslo,
Señor!

home-made wine can sometimes resemble
hoegaarden beer...
   and every time i drink it... i fool myself
into thinking that there's no Dionysian
song at the end of the bottle...
                    and there isn't any laughter,
well... i soon drift into my daydream:
to speak the same broken german as my
father speaks his broken english...
       mein gott... when will my spirit return
to its resting place?
before the flight, i've stocked up on all
  the current, old matters...
                    for example i approach
heidegger's ponderings ii - vi with the following
statement... θoυτ - da... die μενς -
      thought: it's non-sense... preposition that
differently, groß bitte!
      thought is a non-sense... the hyphen is
there for a reason... nonsense ≠ non-sense...
     i mean, like the notion of soul being extinct
these days, i find thought to be as hard to
find as the soul...
          but it's already 1 in the afternoon,
and the maxim: gentlemen only drink in the afternoon
rings true...
     i can't find thought with my senses...
i can't see it, i can't hear it (although i once claimed
to have heard it), i can't touch it,
      all the pentagram magic incantations
don't seem to work...
          thought... is it really a case of the ought i?
you look at the language of the ponderings ii - vi
and you have to come to the conclusion
that thought is the prime non-sense -
          way way beyond the concept of soul -
i just mean to address
  this phenomenon-noumenon -
                   well, given our track record at not
really creating a fairy tale of this world...
             once more: it's not a case of this being nonsense,
this is but an extension of a non-sense -
       this doesn't prove i think, i never know why
writing something proves that i'm thinking -
   great, bravo, bring on more diatribe...
although non-verbal... purely non-sensual...
    because if i use a certain word that doesn't
appeal to you: i simply prove your heart exists...
   i don't prove the idea of you thinking,
       if i use certain words, i prove your heart
exists, i can't prove that you reason with the words,
because such words come from my
perspective... and as elitist as this might sound:
i didn't use jane eyre as a wedge for my door...
    i just didn't spend too much time on a youtube
channel... i felt the need to do a Beethoven...
    never really knowing whether this words would
be read by a saxophone, violin or trombone...
   or perhaps a ******* clarinet! or sung as:
hosannah! by a castrato... and when the other
eunuchs of other cultures watched a lot of *****
in harems, the post-roman eunuchs were told to sing!
hence the hyphen, in non-sense as in not nonsense
(read Beckett's Watt, same logic),
   the same hyphen used in: samo-gwałt -
now, would the real haberdasher please throw in
another accent...
          (for some reason i always thought
that meant: throwing pebbles onto the road
for grit)
                                 ... haber is certainly not
etymologically german... haben on the other hand is...
   beautiful word that, samogwałt -
ref. lying about your libido...
                      we are never really born with
such a libido as to be perfectly synchronised with
the opposite ***...
                there i go, talking about demonic
fairies...
         because samogwałt means *******,
and to be less confusing, also known as self-****...
the literal translation of the word samo-gwałt
is samo- / self-           -gwałt / -****...
                 but thankfully i don't have the excuse to
use this against someone in my vicinity...
      lucky for me, the Japanese have a vivid
imagination, e.g. Urotsukidōji -
or as i remember it typed into a search engine:
japanese, manga, **** demon /
     japanisch, manga, rhubarb (raub, raps?) dämon.
but only in the context of having read
Beckett's Watt, or heidegger's ii - vi...
   thought, the first proposed non-sense -
      and if the brain could even comprehend
thinking (and not doing the automaton dance
of shooting neurons)... it would simply reply
with a headache...
                                  the brain can't comprehend
thought, given it's perfect penta symmetry
and harmony with the body...
   thought for the brain translates as a headache...
and who said: that we aren't really
standing outside our bodies? if not our own
in a voyeuristic manner... then at least hovering
over others in a narrative manner...
     god forbid in a zeitgeist manner of politics...
    that means ruling the human surf.

my point is
he's impossibly cute
and looks as if he jumped out
of shoujo manga

Oh my God, I forgot
how ******* amazing Manga
is and I wonder can't

Remember why I ever stopped
reading it tickles then torments
my sensitive nature and
reminds me

I am a romantic when
my green grows and swells
resonating from her hand on
his coat or her resounding
"I belong to him" sound

It sounds like drivel:
to need so little as a trope's
grip of some coat in a storm

Now of New Age, I am a fan,
I communed with my healing man,
I relaxed, breathed, because I can,
Yes! I communed with my soul's shaman,
He appeared, by my psychic side,
At last, I met my inner guide,
But, you see, it was lunchtime,
Hunger pains panged inside,
Who is this messenger guide?
I asked, yearning deep, besides,
Yes! I did commune with my inner shaman,
Unfortunately, his name is Manga!
Let's do lunch,
End of hunch!