Like multiple personalities
Creatures inhabit me
I know each persona as she lives
Sweepingly amalgamated
Feminine and Feline
Paradoxal archetype
In woman’s intuition
I am free!
And I would be nothing less

Now the objects around
They are close to me, they touch me
But no, I cannot feel them with little space
Slowly sufocating, light speed irritating

Now the objects in orbit
They are distant, the wind can blow between us
But joy, I can feel them
I see them from the far spot
Light speed perceiving, slowly breathing

Just as there is no lie
without a kernel of truth,
There is no truth
untainted by human tongues.

Jake.
Your name felt bitter on my lips.
Jake.
You touched her and I screamed.
Jake.
You gave great hugs.
Jake.
Your glares cut like knives.
Jake.
Your laugh sounds empty.
Jake.
Your smile is forced.
Jake.
All you.
Alexis
My name doesn't touch your lips.
Alexis.
I touch him and you don't care.
Alexis.
I held on for a little too long.
Alexis.
Eyes filled with tears instead of glares.
Alexis.
My laugh is full.
Alexis.
My smile is genuine.
Alexis.
So paradoxal.

I may be the person who cries the most.
In sadness and in happiness
In funerals and weddings.

I may be sensitive but sometimes, cold as stone

I will feel deeply or be completely indifferent
Rarely in the middle
Little grey area
A complete opposition of the person I am

it was really only about writing a haiku's worth of words.

a bit like listening to an atheist on the internet,
after spending 2 years reading kant's critique,
to find 3 arguments:
- ontological,
- cosmological argument
-  teleogical-physics...
and they're all refuted by the author as actually
leading to a "proof"...
and then to later find in his work that he simply
believes... or as i will state in my *******-esque
jargon... that he had the same emotional capacity
to comply with a woman in the grand adventure
of life, as i did, or do...
        there's a cheaper word to use to just say
for per se reason other than *****...
        atheism is just that...
                           that thing... really has the emotional
capacity of a gnat... oh look... no silent g...
               so three argument by kant,
all seemingly pointless: because we like kings to
exist and be "delusional" by the concept...
         of a god/s...
                               as to say: when did we stop
in being unable to relate? oh right... when we "got together"...
    fixed sayings, fixed meanings,
          i wish i could have stomached a relationship
with a woman... but then again: i wasn't too bright
to catch-up on being ambiguous...
       well... a woman explained it to me thus,
given the ******* profession...
       man has to be promiscous type
       so a woman can play her role as *amibuity;
no wonder man got bored and started to philosophise /
love of love - you really want to say loaf to loathe
and then see a V pop up...
           or at least that's what he said, when he got
bored of living within the capacity of a refrigerator
and being prompted by some hunt for affection...
spices... teasing, sniffing ashes...
            you never realise that the woman is an
ambiguity, and that man the promiscuity...
take that poetry... rhyme debukt... words that could
be echo... lying side by side.
   too late, doing the elvis aha or ahum or
ahahahum and then having a shower -
so he really did debunk the french theory of
the english stiff upper-lip?          

alternatively, some Pollockesque *******.

from kant giving his three arguments
for even trying to prove god to exist:
- ontological, for, but rather from
the basis of how you behave...
- the cosmological argument ...
- physico-teleogical (fizyko-teologicznego)
   / teleogical-physics...
oh look... a θ particle... must be sub-atomic
physics... since why wouldn't i
make the spelling mistake of writing teological?
   must be θeology... it's that crux
of digested syllables: tele- -ogical / te- -leo -g...
            te- -le- -ology?
tell a leo he's an aquarius?

and he thus concludes in his mini-novel
of easy reading session in
transcendental methodology
that all the three tiers of arguments are
without a scientific argument to be even
attempted...
    it's not that the result might be unproven,
or left like a barren desert
that asks for as much rain, as it does for hope...
he just argues that the three categories of
the mode of question attempted are deviod of
   any final overcoming sigh or sight to marvel at,
and states that the questions prefigure
a complete negation of asking them, in the first place,
what heidegger later calls: a throwing
into, or: a happening - that's trully necessary,
with any arguments as derelict houses;

or is that just in english, the germanic prefix
self-, that later ends up nothing but a cartwheel?
that's how they put it: self-help,
self-employment... self-confidence...
      what's that? motivation for a cyborg?

those are hefty things to consider,
given they are structured a bit like itemising
an atom: electrons (ontology) i.e.
in high-school they tell you electrons have
orbits, at university they tell you they are
clouds... then you sorta lose the plot
when they tell you that they don't behave
like clear units, but like quanta...
like life and death: now you see me, now you don't
type of "trick"...

thus

cruxing on 1, or working from 1...
of what can be said of the unison...
clearly i am not speaking unison, given that i'm working from
a bias of solitude... is it all conforming to a togetherness,
or is it just moving in the many diadem directions
looking awkward when dancing?

it doesn't matter: the language written when drinking
and fasting...

         atheism, having reached the end of kant's
critique, simply tells me of the emotional content of a person,
it's nothing too complicated,
                  it's an emotive construct,
   you have different emotional labyrinths for atheists
as you have for theists...
            some do things openly, lend themselves to
submission... others protest against such
juxtaposition of the body... since they are not gratifying
the "sacrifice" of women, who make themselves
prostate before the ritual...
   sound about right?
                       it must sound much much simpler:
if there was no phallus for a woman to prostate herself
there would be no god for man to do likewise...
          well... wouldn't you think that? esp. these
days with the pronoun war, the unearthing of the nag
hammadi library and it's obvious silent insolence
to be spread and firmly established...
the fact that some people actually own libraries
in their own personal space... and feminism?
    
let's call it a symbiosis...
   the difference between an atheist and a theist / deist
(by now, the close proximity of saying the two
words makes no sense, given the thesaurus and synonyms) -
at best, i can only see an atheist as someone
with an emotional construct that cannot accommodate a woman,
paradoxal: given kant...
who had the emotional capacity to be a theist,
but then able to translate it into having a spouse...

if it really is a case of / for atheism
the person will not speak plain sprechen...
    he will provide "looking behind the scenes"
of something akin to autism, the posh word is actually
all theory based: solipsism...

i really don't think actual atheists have the emotional
capacity to inscribe into their heart a word from a woman,
to have a heart capable for a woman's bloated
over-burdening O and A in biography.

atheism (a-      -the              and no ism)
   is like living with the left eye being unable to synchronise
with your right eye... it's not a case of being without
god... it's being without a woman...
                   a woman is like gravity,
it orientates a man, makes him do things...
            a woman is but gravity,
                           you fall into place as a man,

i don't know how much kant too pleasure from the feelings
he had with that she-devil he invented up there,
in the celestial library of licking out anuses...
   there really isn't a better way to probe the matter...
not after i spent such a long time

reading his three-tier argument, to only be rewarded with
the fact that he still said, at the end of it:
i believe.
                 who does that to a man?
           someone who will later laugh and say:
better you invested your time in some darling Clemency,
or June, or something that might be of use...
something that might make you sing akin to eric
clapton: wonderful tonight...
      it would actually help doing what i do if
i didn't have an artistic transcendentalism to back the argument
up with... testing the nerve and the part of me that
likes going to the toilet gym for a bit of sitting yoga...
alas... it's not there...

  the bane of living in england in the 21st century
compared to living in poland in the 20th century...
men went to the army for 3 compulsory years
  after graduating from school aged 21... or 19...
anyway... later than in current england, when you can
******* aged 16...
                 what a mistake to have entered university...
i'll never stop slapping myself for having
made such a mistake...
      
as of those who believe in gods, we also believe
     in being titans: basically at war with ourselves;
having written that, i'm going to dread having
to reread the rest i wrote, for typos in the excess of being
drunk.... and actually listening to eric clapton...
ugh! what's that word? that americanism?!
it's so nasal i don't even know how to spell it:
poodle / coo d and the plural e? sounds like ease,
or thereabouts.

Grasping sinews on a trust worthy heart,
breaking through an unseen boundary,
the common reality.

Finding oneself, alone among the masses
looking through mosaic glasses.

The city seems distant,
from atop the grassy knoll.

Careening downward, shifting vision,
a paradoxal mode.

Serpentine breaths, squeezing my lungs,
corrupting my scent
with a flick of the tongue.

Rivers of blood,
carrying souls of the forgotten,
coursing my veins,

Debris; scattered, rotten

Turn the other cheek
They said

Learn to say no
They said

Be obedient
They said

Vote Obama!
They said

Vote red!
They said

Stay in
They said

Go smoke
They said

Well convoluted minds
Histories
Experiences
Paradoxal Opinions

Confused
Beffuddled
Hurt me.

No. No. No.
But one of these is wise.
But one of these should be heeded.
Know who I am? What for?

Youth for parties
Youth for learning
Youth for discovering

But no.
Youth for nothing.
Youth for everything.
That’s the Beauty of this world.

But then the creeping folds
At the corner of eyes,
Framing the mouth
And the filmy eyes
And the sudden aches
And the sluggish pace
And the Beauty is gone
And the wise are back.

You know what?
*******.
I may have liked your small ****.
But you're still a ******* *****.
Words speak volumes.
Or the lack thereof.
I hope you read this and ******* *****.
You're gonna read this ten years from now.
And remember how I swallowed your kids.
You're gonna remember how I rode your ****.
You're gonna remember how I let you eat my ****.
You're gonna remember the four hour long ****** sessions spent inside me.
And I hope it makes you think how though you got inside me, you never really got inside.
You never even knew me.
You saw what I show everybody.
And if you really think that you ******* mattered,
Well, I'm not a liar.
Because ten years from now
I'll still ******* taste you on my lips.
And spit out the word fool.
Because I am a paradoxal universe.
But fool is how I feel.
All those talks felt so surreal.
You knew I was ****** from day one,
So why did you **** me?
Or, rather, why did I let you?
Why did you ask for deep meaning things?
Are you in to mind fuckery?
I hate that I can't take back the parts of me that I gave you.
And my chest hurts from thinking about you all the ******* time.
Leave my mind.
I'll never get back that time.
You jumped off the roller coaster ride.
Before you even won the prize.
But that really comes as no surprise.
I guess it's a let down, thinking I saw a different side.
Seeing in different light.
Lessons are learned from everything hurtful we try to hide from our minds.
Just ******* stop already.
Because I can't move in halves.
I can't breathe in halves.
I can't be in halves.
I need a whole friendship, if anything.

Being with you, I suddenly felt free.
Being with you liberated me
Being with you, was a thrill, so soon,
your aura had pierced through the typhoons
Surrounding my heart, you entered my zone
A volcano erupts
               we provoked a tone.
Being with you,
Im suddenly alone.
I realized Im wrong
I realized what I did
This was not how it was supposed to be
It was too late i had pulled in you in too deep.
You saw me as everything that i sought to be.
Whereas.
I dwindled and fell into depths of no worth
The broken side of me had swiftly resurged
My passion for you led my own passions astray and
Replaced them with hell on earth.
Pretty funny how the irony just emerged
Hell and heaven the reason for birth
And then I remember why we ended and
it brings me mirth.
Being with you was another universe.
One thats too vast it immersed,
but it didnt fit, So it turned into a curse.
I’ll  leave my paradoxal self to converse with your lips to create the most beautiful free verse
But here its reversed, reality is worse
It cannot be traversed so i simply adhered
I needed a reverse
My state was deteriorating the more i rehearsed
The lines in our script
Just bodies, no words
But darling please realize this isnt gonna work
Lets leave it to that world,
To ignite our fireworks and
it feels strange, like a quirk
We may go berserk
But i guess our love was the type that subverts
The only way out is to weaken our verse
Disturb our lines and coerce
Them to stop rhyming let the letters disperse
Being with you is poetry that i cannot blurt
Or sing or whisper it left me inert.
Im sorry, that i didnt notice it first
That poison was also what love exerts
And that love would leave us with so much **hurt.

Au-dessus de ta cordillère,
Là où pointent tes seins et tes rêves,
Là où s 'ébrouent les félins de lave
Deux voyeurs aux yeux artificiels
Deux volcans,
L 'un éteint, l 'autre endormi,
T'épient de leurs cratères
et peignent de leurs pinceaux de feu bleu
Chaque battement de la rivière céleste de tes cils
Chaque feulement de souffre des ténèbres
De tes paupières closes plongées
Dans un feu d'artifices paradoxal.
Plus **** encore un troisième volcan
En activité, émousse en miaulant,
Tel un ténor ombrageux,
Ses griffes de matou en mi bémol.

Dizem que vivemos na terra da liberdade
Mas como se pode chamar liberdade se não somos livres?
Somos livres para seguir a ordens dadas
Somos livres para escolher o que nos não foi escolhido

Liberdade para criar uma carreira passada
Inovar o que foi criado
Sonhava ser livre
Liberdade paradoxal do pensamento

Somos livres para escolher religiões
Somo livres pensadores que acreditam num ser superior
Mas como podemos ser livres se não acreditamos em nós
Somos livres de pensar o que já foi pensado
Somos livres na terra da liberdade
Terra nutrida de mentiras e ordens
Terra sem virtude
Terra onde vivemos
Terra onde somos o que não queríamos

Assim se é livre
Livre acorrentado por coisas que não somos
Pensamento preso por aquilo que não fomos
Assim morremos ansiosos pelo ser superior
Ansiosos para ELE nos mostrar o seu poder
Mas como? Se morremos ao nascer

Ó vida!

Que de ti se apagou a luz

Da escrita criativa.



Não foi de ti, vida,

Foi de mim.



Foi de mim que se extinguiu!

E a mim que ela levou,

                Depois que me partiu…

Como se me levasse a vida!

Toda!

            a que existia.



E como é criativa,

A musa que me inspira à escrita!

Foi de mim;

Levou-me a vida;

                              Mas conseguiu deixar-me viva.



“Tem tanto de triste

Como de cruel:

Ser peso morto que respira.”



Escrevi isso em algum papel…

Que logo depois perdi,

Ou se molhou,

Ou o esqueci,

Em algum lugar

Ao qual não pretendo voltar.



Mais tarde, estava de frente com o Mar

Quando dei por mim a chorar…



Em algum momento pensei:

“Talvez a dor da sua partida

Seja outra faísca perdida no ar

À qual me vou agarrar,

E sentir entre os dedos

Antes de a transformar  

Em algo mais.”



O “algo mais” que me referia,

Creio que seja esta desordenada poesia.



É o sangue quente, frio, vermelho, azul, é rio, és fogo,

Sou maresia, és eu, sou tu, somos nós, é o mundo,

É a fantasia, é a verdade disfarçada de ironia,

É dor, é amor, é tudo o que caiba num poema,

É tudo o que faça encher; se possível, transbordar!



Foram tantos!  

Os que me imploraram para os escrever.

Era eu que ia buscar a inspiração;

Ou era ela que me vinha socorrer?!



No frenesim da escrita maldita

Ficou outra questão por responder.



A caneta tornou-se um órgão essencial

Que não pedi para transplantarem cá dentro;

Sentia a sua forte presença nos momentos de maior alento;

Era a ponte que eu percorria, entre o sentir e o saber;

Assisti enquanto se estendia; dobrava! mas nunca partia;

Até encontrar na página branca uma saída

Para poder florescer; e florescia!

Nascia uma folha que era tecida; com uma teia tão fina que ninguém via;

Só brilhava quando a luz lhe batia; resplandecia!

Quando existia uma ligação direta entre mim e a magia;

De estar na beira do precipício entre a morte e a armadilha;

A que escolhem chamar de vida.



Ah! Musa criativa…

A única que me inspira à escrita!

Sei que um dia te irei reler,

Mas só quando estiver pronta para te entender.



Prometo que vou fazer por o merecer!



Talvez quando esta agonia paradoxal

De ser

Tão humana e sentimental

De ter

De amar à distância  

Uma humana tão excecional

Fizer sentido;  

                        Ou então desaparecer!



Foi um “adeus” que nem te cheguei a dizer…



Nem vou tentar romancear

Toda a angústia que vivi; contida

Numa simples despedida.  



Foi como se dissesse adeus à vida!



Pois nem toda a tinta

Alguma vez já vertida

Serviu para camuflar o *****

Que saiu da minha espinha

Quando a adaga me acertou.



Até hoje, nem eu sei como me atingiu!

Se fui eu que não a vi,

Ou se fui eu quem a espetou?!



Mas era *****, muito *****,

Tudo o que de mim sangrou;

Quando descobri,

Num mero dia, num inferno acaso,

Que no final das contas

A única que eu tanto amava

Se tinha entregue a um alguém tão raso.



Tapei os olhos com terra suja!...

Tal como decidiu fazer a minha musa.



“O pior cego é o que não quer ver!”

Prefere fechar os olhos porque abri-los é sofrer!



Induzi-me à cegueira;

Amnésia propositada;

Alma bem trancada;

Tudo para a tentar esquecer.



Tudo para lhe pagar na mesma moeda!



Então, claramente, o desfecho da narrativa só poderia ser:

De olhos bem fechados se deu a queda…



Foi assim que aprendi:

A vingança tal como o ódio,

É veneno para quem a traz!



Parei…

Dei um, dois, três, quatro, cinco mil passos atrás.

Relaxei…

Segui em frente.

                                         Lá ia eu  

                                                        com a corrente…



Inspirei amor e paz.



E foi assim que os abri,

Com uma chapada de água fria.



Não posso dizer que não a mereci.



Foi à chuva, nua, de frente com a verdade pura e crua,  

que descobri do que era capaz; e quando soltei ar de novo,  

expeli branco, afastou-se um corvo, brilhou o sol com a lua atrás, e:



Ahhhhh! Lá estava ela, exatamente ali!



Onde sempre tinha estado.

No lugar que lhe era reservado,

Onde estava eu também.



Olhamo-nos;

Com um olhar triste; influenciado

Por restos de terra suja

Que ainda não se tinham descolado.



                                                             Quase não aguentei;

                               Contrariei

                              A vontade de fugir;

                                                               ­                                                                 ­      
                                                                ­      E sorri-lhe…



Já fui um ser não tão humano,

Que até para amar estava cansado!

Preso por correntes de ilusões;

Ego;

Egoísmo;

E muito mais do que considero errado.



Como tudo na História

Isso pertence apenas ao passado.



Ah! Musa criativa…

A única que me inspira à escrita!

Ela, melhor que ninguém, o deveria saber;

Que me tornei um ninguém melhor,

Só por a conhecer.



Fiquei mais ardida

Que a Roma Antiga!

Quando aquela louca,

Tal musa criativa,

Me pegou na mão

E fez-me a vida colorida.



(Despertou-me fogo no coração!)



Alastrem-se cores de cinza!

Espalhem-se! Que os vamos fazer ver:

Mesmos os templos em ruína

São possíveis de reerguer.

You make me wanna go,
Why wouldn’t I go?
Should I go?
Why can’t I let go?
Leave you behind,
Be happy with me, myself and I.

What a paradoxal world..
I still don’t understand love fully..
Dumb enough to think that everything is in its best colors,
But it s mostly grey, cloudy and black.
Feels like my heart it’s getting cold,
But i still hold on..

I keep missing a man I never met.
A person whom my soul grieves every minute of the day.
A happy place to turn to when I’m upset.
Only to remember, that he isn’t here yet.
He never was, and may never be.
Because I need to be capable on my own.

But the thing is, I’m ok alone. I’m doing fine alone. But my heart clenches for another heart to sync my beats.

A soul that speaks my mother language like I do.
I don’t want it to be an unhealthy obsession or to make my life revolve around him or for him to carry the center piece of my heart that is meant for God.

I want an arm to sleep in. Someone to love the lovey pieces of me and someone to love the parts that I hate about myself. Because no matter how many times I’m told to love myself before I want to be loved I can’t help but disagree.

I love the beautiful parts of me. But the old ugly scars, the bald spots, the strawberry skin, the mean, selfish part of me…it’s toxic and unnatural to fall in love with these parts of myself.

But a soulmate, they see the pain those pieces of me cause, they see my clear dislike for them. And for that they love those parts of me: because to him it’s my most sensitive vulnerable naked self hiding a little kid thinking she’s too stupid and worthless for the big adventures in the world. To a lover, my flaws are nothing but a proof that I am not a dream and rather a reality. A soul flush against them, a soul having so much faith love and respect for them that it timidly shows their scars and faults whilst crossing my fingers to be accepted and loved regardless.

My heart aches and calls for the man who will hold me in his big strong arms. A man who will whisper in my ears that it will all be ok. When the morning comes he will help me wake up because heaven knows getting up is the hardest part of my day.

I hate waking up only to face a reality I in all means wish to procrastinate facing it. I do wake up when I’m alone. I do wake up now with no man. And I face reality regardless. But is it so bad to want another soul to help me bear the weight of the average day?

Is it weak of me to wish for a soul that loves me dearly that never picks up every little bad habit I have and reproach me for it?

Is it bad to want more than a parent that blames?
To want more than a friend that wants what’s best for you but can never really truly see your soul?
All of the paradoxal parts of your soul?
Is it so bad to want more than a friend who turns a blind eye to your ugly pieces?
Is it so bad to want someone to believe in my possibly non existent ability to achieve my unrealizable dreams?

I am grateful for thé love i have in my life. For my friends. For my little siblings that have so much expectations for me yet I continue doing exactly what hurt me as a child to them. Yet I continue to disappoint them. Yet I continue to shove my ugly soul down their throat. Only to show them glimpses of the beautiful energy in me. Oh how I hate who I become when my sisters catch me in a bad mood.

How I hate that the antidepressants don’t do **** anymore. How I hate that I feel completely utterly like an ugly mess. Is it so bad to wish for a Prince Charming to make me feel like a beautiful princess that regardless of her apparent weakness and helplessness she has a magic power that no one holds but her?

A magic power that only worked after the appearance of Prince Charming. I can understand the anger of women. Their anger towards men and Disney. Their obsession with doing it all alone. I understand it all. But is it so bad that I haven’t lost hope? That I believe in a soul mate? That I hope and can only hope that our roads will cross?

Don’t tell me to get up on my own. To do all of that on my own. Because I will. I will become better and I will become beautiful on my own. But is to so bad to wish for a man to watch me evolve?

Is it so bad to wish for a masculine energy other than that overly exposed part of me?
Is it so bad that no man has ever lived up to the standards of my soulmate?
Is it so bad that no soul has been able to fluently understand my language?

Whatever fate holds for me. I hope that God would ******* out of strong and beautiful. But God will you please please allow my soul to meet its companion.

For God, I need no one but you. But you know, you know how the journey is much more pretty and less bitter when surrounded by the souls I was intertwined with before they became ripped apart and each was given a temporary house: a body.

But my house will never be a home if there is no one to come back to. God I miss him so much. Don’t tell me he doesn’t exist. He might have died. Heck we might no even exist in the same era.

But he existed I can feel him. In the cries of my soul. In the grieves of my soul. In the longing of my soul. In the back of my head. A distant memory that I can’t remember but that always haunts me. I can feel him in the way I’m so loyal to a person that I don’t remember.

God please have mercy on me and let our souls intertwine again during this life. The want is turning into a dull ache in my chest to violent thudding against my rib cage to a full hollow heart.

Bobèche, adieu ! bonsoir, Paillasse ! arrière, Gille !

Place, bouffons vieillis, au parfait plaisantin,

Place ! très grave, très discret et très hautain,

Voici venir le maître à tous, le clown agile.


Plus souple qu'Arlequin et plus brave qu'Achille,

C'est bien lui, dans sa blanche armure de satin ;

Vides et clairs ainsi que des miroirs sans tain,

Ses yeux ne vivent pas dans son masque d'argile.


Ils luisent bleus parmi le fard et les onguents,

Cependant que la tête et le buste, élégants,

Se balancent sur l'arc paradoxal des jambes.


Puis il sourit. Autour le peuple bête et laid,

La canaille puante et sainte des Iambes,

Acclame l'histrion sinistre qui la hait.