these western leftist,
make us former commies...
look... really really
******* bad...

        my grandfather,
who was abandoned by his
father, spewed by the lies
of his father's brother,
found some stability
in the communist party...

sometimes did jury duty...
the communist party
gave him a house... etc. etc.,
but this, "thing" in the west?
the dissonance conundrum
of creating a collective hive?

it doesn't, and it will never work...
i already said this,
but i'll say it again...
communism does work...
but in only one instance...
post-war countries,
esp. given the plight of
Syria...
                
           it's a transitory period...
so the Syrian baker
can trust the ******* Syrian
taxi cab driver, once again...
communism is not a failure
in that it's applied as
a fail-safe concept,
a rebuilding mechanism,
  
like Poland... 1945...
through to circa 1990...
    it worked...
  **** it worked...
  eastern Europe didn't
receive funds from the American
Marshall Plan...

but Sweden and Switzerland
did...
   i thought they were neutral
countries in the conflict?

communism is a failure if its not
considered a recovery economy,
or rather:
    there's no or other at this point...

in post-war scenarios,
it's the only egalitarianism that works
in the short-end...
this is not English style of
egalitarian idealism...
   (a term i borrow from German
idealism of Kant)...
            no... the English don't know
that their egalitarian idealism
doesn't work...
it's too soft...
the war was harsh...
you're not going to rebuild
the same civic plateau with capitalism,
of a country that was either:
invaded by a foreign power,
or imploded into chaos via
a breach of ethnic-civility...

you can't rebuild Syria with
foreign intervention...
communism is far from a failure
of ideology...
   it was always supposed
to instigate a transitional
period, a post-scriptum...
   a communism can exist,
successfully, for... roughly 50 years...
once the tragedy passes...

and then the free markets can
take over, capitalism can have its
"stage fright", or rather its
wild west...
            but not before the circa 50
years are over...
  a Syrian baker,
   must begin a civil dialectic with
a Syrian taxi driver...
no amount of foreign intervention
will solve the problem...

it's not like you can reuse
the rubble to rebuild the same houses...
sure... the darkest hour
in Poland under communism was
when martial law (stan wojenny)
was implemented by
Wojciech Jaruzelski
(Roy Orbison, no, really,
Roy Orbison)...
food-stamps, long queues at supermarkets
rationing... only white vinegar on
the shelves of supermarkets...
the whole presupposition of war
against the Soviets,
  counter measures to
      avoid the instances of
the Hungarian / Czechoslovakian
occupation / suppression...
   the Parisian spirit of '68...
every time i look into your loving eyes,
one look, from you,
  i drift... away!
    i pray, that you, are here, to stay!
anything you want, you got it...
anything you need, you got it...
anything at all, you got it...
   bay.................................. be!

western Europe received pittance
pay-checks from H'america...
eastern Europe received the hard graft of
communism...
             and it worked...
because it was supposed to work
for the 50 or so years that it did work...
when it stopped working...
my home town lost roughly 20K
   metalwork jobs...
  the metalwork factory was scrapped,
cut up, sold to foreign investors...
Celsa? i believe that's a Spanish company...

some people grew old, retired,
some went on the dole,
some became homeless,
some migrated to other parts of the country,
otherwise took the bold route
and emigrated to other parts of
Europe and the world...
a town dies, the people disperse
if in a dispersing worthy age...

     but i turn on the tube...
and listen to all these leftist lunatics,
and i'm like...          what?!
communism works,
   it works, in exceptional circumstances,
and like i said, before an equal
footing competition market resurfaces,
you're getting ****...
             this is not to suggest that
communism is at odds with capitalism...
apparently... it never was!

         but... you can't rebuild
Syria with capitalism...
  first you have to return to a commonly
shared civility, a counter to what
already exists in the English egalitarian idealism...
best represented as:

a 200m race at the Olympics...
all the competitors walk an equal
pace for 100m...
        and the next 100m?
they do their sprint, they compete!
but not until communism creates
a basis for a mutual trust of civility
between a Syrian baker,
and a Syrian taxi driver...

      capitalism and outright
competition will never solve the problem...
because outright competition
creates nothing more than
an dystopian: post-apocalyptic
mad max: fury road endless cycle of
recurring opportunists...

scavengers...
                      it works... in periods of
roughly 50 years...
what... and capitalism isn't prone
to its own timescales of economic crashes?!
see...
             even capitalism has hiccups...
but like i said:
    communism works...
for time periods, post-scriptum of
the damaging events...
                        under exceptional circumstances
of it being necessarily implemented...
like world war II... the Syrian civil war;
and only then!

****... my grandfather and all the other
school children, actually cried
when news hit the country about Stalin's death...
i have access to an actual ****** source,
what do you have?
  a target of ridicule,
        donning a che guevara t-shirt
who still hasn't rid himself of acne?

I scare myself with bitterness:
Mersault found within him
an invincible summer in the midst of winter
but I do not want even to pretend
that that is what I am looking for.
I am numb beyond existentialism.
But not numb with cold.

In my youth, my favorite colour was green
because of spring and trees and turtles and frogs
and when the weather turned
and the leaves grew back
I would whittle the time away outside
barefoot, on the grass,
loving the warmth of sun-kissed skin
and the breeze on my dry cheeks.

Today the leaves grow back
and the green resurfaces
and the warmth has the world walking
with an optimistic spring it its step
but today I think that maybe I do not like green
that maybe my favorite colour is orange.
Dark but bright? Or yellow,
because it can be cheer to some
but the moment you place it beside white
suddenly yellow is impurity
and for all the pure innocence of spring,
everything is, is it not, washed over in a
translucent coat of yellow, stifling sunlight.

So I yearn for winter
and for cold
for numb fingers
just before they are thawed by yellow fires
for sweaters and scarves and hot cocoa
for bare trees outlined with snow
and for the world blanketed, from
green grass coated with frost
to yellow sun obliterated by clouds,
by the sparkling snow,
white in all its gloomy glory.

At the back of my mind,
there are many thoughts,
There's always that one voice,
The voice convinced me of things,
If not all the time, it will be some of the time.
I never thought it could harm anyone,
In particular, I never thought it could,
But I underestimated the small voice,
I misunderstood its determination.
It takes control of me, feeding me,
With thoughts that hinders me from living,
Deters me from my path,
Bind me from reality.
I give in to it a couple of time,
My weak self can't seem to win over it,
Their determination overthrow my rationality,
Controls my life and action.
It tells me I'm not good enough, it tells me,
I'm not worth it, it tells me things that hurts.
It retreats sometime, and when it does,  I get so happy.
I could be happy with no second thoughts,  I can respond.
I can smile, I can laugh.  
It felt liberating to do so.
It felt as if everything are perfect;  my life is perfect.
It made me forget.
But then,  it didn't want me to forget.
The chain that held them captive wasn't strong enough,
So they broke free, they resurfaces.
"I'm back" it claims.

- ponder

The delinquent infrequent resurfaces with a soul purpose, no direction except insurrection, conquering self and self conquering come hand in hand.  It takes a lot to be a man,  it takes more to not be sore.  Lessons learned come from hands burned and life moves as the wheels turn.

Continue to complain about how insane I’ve become,
I commend you for not running away.

I defended you
When the offensive ones pointed crooked fingers.
Now I linger in a hollow heart that cannot love,
A heart destroyed by the bitter forces of regret.

I bring you the sweetest peace after the loudest storm.
And in return I receive,
Sorrows borrowed from yesteryears
Carried onto the morrow.

Don’t bury the hate that resurfaces, destroy it.
And don’t carry the weight that brings down, drop it.

The child trapped within me, wonders
She still does…her heart filled with curiosities about the world around her
She still loves the smell of concrete after it rains
The feeling of velvet, the sound of Velcro as it detach itself
She is still intrigued about the intricate bends on an elderly face
And finds herself dancing among strangers to the tunes on her head
She still likes to feel the cold floor under her naked feet
…and at times she allows a smile without reason to fly away

The child trapped within me, still sings the songs she learned decades ago
When innocence couldn't make sense out of the corrupted lyrics
…she dares to invade my brain in search of herself
and  tries,oh how she tries to take ownership of absent things, that no longer belong to her

The child within me doesn't understand

It is time to disappear
Lost among the day to day
She cannot add the weight on the shoulders
the creaking of the joints, the sleepless night of a busy head
the tired feet
rhythm-less arms that forgot how to fly, and now…now can only float guideless
among thousands of face, hitting the shore
lingering in an ocean of responsibilities
drowning, my child, refuses to sink and resurfaces
intrigued by a reflection of intricate lines

Lost, I find her
Hidden deep inside, she escapes at times
To remind me of what life ought to be,
…afraid my child, hides again.

The quiet nights spent alone
Cold as the iciest winter
Wandering wondering
If things had happened in reverse,
Would they be somewhat better?

True Affliction
Unwise decisions
Regretting forgiveness that was once given
Faulty thoughts
Impaired judgments
Logic flawed with justifiable reason

Transgressing to levels uncertain
A tornado of doubt destroys every light in sight
With every dreadful memory that resurfaces
Of the darkest times in her life

The anxiety clouds her mind
Uncertainty glares from behind her eyes
Scars of past loves, past exes, past wounds, past lies
They cover her face

Shown in the bags above her cheeks
The darkness behind her pupils
And the depression contained in them
A midnight black
A dark hole only caused by deep sorrow
Unfathomable Heartache

Overly afraid of the unknown
How will she learn to let go?
As if instinctively hesitant of others intentions
She treads vigilantly amongst
Those of even the utmost caliber

Stern refusal to release her guard
Such little remaining to give
She clings sacredly onto the last of her

To think,
Never again will she slip and fall
Blindly into loves tainted cage
Never again will she be trapped in loves locks
Like an animal untamed
Internally shattered in a zoo of impure emotion
How will she decipher the wrong from the right person?

Passively awaiting
The next bearer of alleged variation
When history has too often chosen to repeat
The differences in being different
Eventually turn out to be exactly the same

The purgation or Katharismós that was unleashed, all the imperfections were gleaned by the elevations that descended due to ignominies and pathogenic lineage that were falsified by the demonicity of one who does not walk soullessly to another who is immune. The dark and cloaked darkness slipped away through the first sense of the fifth son that began to become sensitized, being the hearing that agreed in Vernarth with its great hypersensitivity of the Eclectic Portal, in which they are disconsolate when listening in unison, and who are shielded from the noise of the night when crushing the souls in pain that they purged from their places at midnight and on the way to the third midnight that appeared at 03:00, when the spirits lined up looking with their faces in the first night, at the cessation of all objectivity of Aesthesia. All already emigrated from all the dungeons of the leprosarium with meager living bodies and crowded souls in purgation; The Manes Apsidas with the remote light of the night of the antelucan, preceded the dawn following the darkness of midnight and not the second, to protect souls in expiation, with the lightning of the four Xiphos crusades of Vernarth, Etréstles, Theus and Vikentios, when Wonthelimar and Vlad Strigoi lagged behind them from hours to minutes, until within the same night three septenaries passed by, illustrating the supernatural Hijra of the Apsidas, transporting themselves to the dark souls of Spinalonga. The living went in double rows from blind rationality and without words to mention, only souls in purgation followed the path of Marie des Vallés who was exteriorized with the Apofisi in her palm, as a written object, and of great passive sensitivity, to then activate what that exceeds a body and a soul incapable of self-help, with excessive darkness, only being transported by hearing as the only sense present before others, who were de-empowered when what deprives beautifies the eyes of those who have no light to see, but if to feel. The atonement continued, and from the altar archangels came down, making those who for different reasons exceeded the privation of the dawn, which is shone in the small spaces of the natural light of Crete, rejoice. The omega overcomes the darkness and the crossed swords Xiphos extended beyond what oppresses the emptiness and non-material belonging of his Hyletic or Hilética, but if from a synod of beings that were abducted from the Kidron Valley and the Beit Hamikdash to the unearthly silence that inked dawn with pale and slimy light in the ranks of the lepers on their way to Agios Andreas where they will reside. The light conquers the darkness of the understanding that only looks with light, but without it, it was upset in the figure of the entities, believing that the Apsidas could be beings of category that are born from a countenance that provides feet to leave without looking back. Thus they would be guarded and not be involved with animals with semi-human figurative characters, in the stubbornness that none of them make sense, being able to be oblivious to the obfuscation of confusion and purgatory, changing all the conscious senses before the authoritarian light and darkness, reaching levels from Isaías “Si non-credideritis, non-intelligetis”, this is portrayed like this: “If you don't believe, you won't understand”.

Then, of course, faith is a dark night for the soul, and in this way it gives light; and the darker it darkens, the more light of itself, because by blinding it gives light. This was pronounced by Marie des Vallées when it was admired that the graceful specimens of Spinalonga were already going away, losing themselves in the dark cloud of uncertainty until Agios Andreas, while more darkness was concelebrated in the private blindness of the night that watched him. Thus in this way, the Saint leaves with the Apsidas Manes in a long night that was allied with the perplexity of dawn, going through the clouds of mourning through each lapse, with the lights that were enough to make her his disciple, erected of a David ascended alongside them. An Apollo resurfaces from the mist overcoming the abyss of temperance, which creates sudden chapters of generating and silencing pain with howls of those who compromise in their aching souls, being able to migrate to slow dimensions with a sensitive voice superior to that of hearing. From this topic the exchange of Gehenna as a voice inferior and superior at the same time to the sense of hearing was closed, when the clouds were already serene with their snowy colors, leaving the lights that dimension everything and transformed into a rational colloquy, which predominates over classic stratagems that will err in those who are not led by error, but by the slovenly voices escaping from whoever conducts the hearing of those who are members of an unconduced purgation, but rather from the twisted fact of free will, burning what is understood not to imagine what would happen, rather what is proper to mortality without faith. The young night was transformed into sovereign dawn, each one coming closer and coming to each one who understands himself. Before a small night that was enlarged in the gloom. They all go to their rooms, going to the third instant of sensitivity, before the intuition of seeing and hearing, together with the aftertaste that each one was pairing with who is not his nature, and thought that was once again renamed in Marie des Vallées, the signage of Isaiah and Saint Paul, “what God has prepared for those who love him, no eye ever saw it, nor ear heard it, nor did it fall into the heart or thought of man”, this being the last message of the Saint when all were discovered from the perennial distance, in glory and submission where the just endures the most intrepid pain seizing their senses towards the Mashiach, alleviating the fantasy that disturbs any deconcentration that should not be admitted together with the halo of Marie des Vallées.

Your words---love , deserve, forever---
Cling to my skin
Like clothes sopping wet,
******* futilely at my neck,
Impossible to shelter from
The torrential nature
Of your need

Your need,
Like the clamoring cries of an infant,
Screechy, demanding,
Hanging helplessly on my arms,
You pine for affection
From this absentee mother figure;
Futility resurfaces.

I feel the weight of you,
Pressing on my chest:
The crushing force of responsibility,
Of dedication, of obligation eternal.
I have written nothing
Since your frigid winter crept into my home
And ravaged my bed, my body, my dreams.
You created my hollow life.

You carved your name
Into my tender wrists
With teeth honed to knives
And fingernails like acid;
You seared it with a kiss,
Poured your toxin in my veins,
Planted rue in my garden.
Ruined.
Never before have I wished more
For death's swift embrace
Than when I hear
My name in your mouth.

"It comes in waves"
More like it resurfaces
You know, because depression is always with me,
Just not always where you can see.
It is the angsty teen hiding in his room until the guests leave.
It is the bad poetry he keeps in a notebook under the bed.
It is the pack of cigarettes he buries in his underwear drawer;
Someone must search to find it.
Depression cannot come in waves.
If it could, wouldn't I be able to ride it out -
Or is drowning my punishment for not learning how to surf?
You see, because I have never surfed in my life.
Everything must wash over me.
I bathe in the ocean instead of the bathtub,
I scrub saltwater into my paper cuts until they are more painful than an open wound in an attempt to validate the sadness that stays with me.
Because even though it is nameless, it is as daunting as the dinner guest,
Hidden, yet embarrassing letters on paper forming words resembling a poem,
Intangible, but quickly filling my lungs and spreading into my bloodstream
Imitating pleasure and escape while slowly releasing dangerous chemicals
While exuding toxins that ****** my relationships and self-worth.
If depression were waves, I could find beauty in them.
Instead, my perception views dismemberments of values,
Shattered pieces of what "before" looked like:
Before the anxiety.
Before the embarrassment.
Before the shame.
If depression truly comes in waves, give me time between to learn to ride them to shore.

I have a theory.

My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. Being fragile to the core that it shakes you to your bones. Being weak and standing up on your own just scares the hell out of you. Despite all these, you try to keep the one thing that keeps your weaknesses intact and in one place. It is hidden inside their throats and at the palm of their hands, at their neck and behind their ears. It is sitting in their lungs, begging for escape but longing for the hold. Flaunt and retire. Flaunt and retire.

My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. You started unbuttoning my ribs around you. Watched me try to untangle myself from your subtle embrace. Exposed my weakness, my fragile strings wrapped on your pinky finger, ready to release, ready to detonate. I unzipped your thighs wrapped around my waist. You left me alone with your scent. Watch me try to scrub away the heat you leave on my skin. See the buttons slowly falling on the bed we shared.

My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. How I want to destroy anything that dared touch me and took a piece of my lonely. It is about open palms giving vague dislike. It is a table for two but only an empty seat stares at your eyes. It is feeling the awkward breaking that is within your fingertips but never seemed to be enough for preparing you for the fall. You finally wake up choosing to breathe but still flinching at the sound of something coming near. Your subtleties dance on her tongue's words. Soothing as they are, they're poison.

My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. How being brave is nowhere near your grasping distance. You try, every single day you try. You try to always go for the long term but the universe decides what you get, right? And you're always left with dust, shadows, and empty bottles of what ifs. You're always left with the questions, the sitting alone, the cold coffee in the morning. You're left with the sad playlists  on your Spotify. You're left on your own. If you were in The Fault in our Stars book, that will be my always.

My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. Fears. Trembling hands holding out cups of secrets. Awkwardness in every written letter on paper hidden under the pillow. Loneliness sitting next to old books bought on a favorite bookstore. Depression long gone but resurfaces every now and then. It's one of things that stayed. Self-hate. It is one thing you run towards to when things get rough and when doubts are heavier than anything you laid your hands on and tried to carry.

My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. Of how I recently started loving myself and slowly drowning my hate in formaline. Of how I keep on repeating I never need the reassurance. Of how poems are all I need to feel like I can feel air inside my lungs again.

It is one thing to have a theory, and another to face it in practice.

the worst kind of Sad is not when Sad tries not to be Sad.

it is when Sad hides in your closet,
threading it's claws through the slightly healed,
fresh scars
that litter your entire being
the way that Freddy claws
at his victims of sleep.

it is when Sad creeps up upon you
as you listen to your favorite song
and it suffocates you -
suffocates you with your own scarf,
letting you fade in and out of life
as you lose yourself in memories you'd like
to forget.

you know which scarf Sad uses, don't you?
it's the red one, with the black stripes,
the one you threw in the furthest corner of your closet
because it reminds you of that day,
and summer sweat,
and the aching empty feeling that consumed you
until you were swallowed up
completely eaten alive.

Sad is only Sad when it keeps you from precious slumber
and drives you to the brink of drowsiness, all the while
weighing you down with
bone crushing, eye drooping heaviness;
Sad hibernates there, sound asleep behind the cavity in your chest
and it makes you think you're okay again.

the worst kind of Sad
is when it resurfaces -
though only when you're alone -
and replays your entire day,
a constant loop through each dragging second,
until you doubt it ever happened.

the worst kind of Sad
is not Sadness itself;
it is not even the chest clenching feeling
that it brings, forcing you to think
about each breath as you make it
but rather, the worst kind of Sad
is the one that breaks your ribs with the strength
of a wrecking ball
and prematurely reminds you
that someday
they will be gone - for good, forever,
a ghost haunting your life.

the worst kind of Sad is the
inevitable and unalterable reality
that there is nothing you can do
to stop it.

(I bit my tongue a thousand times, but had we reached the thousand and first, I would have told you the truth. Why are we allowed to become close now when you are sure to be gone before I can blink my eyes and gather the courage to say goodbye?)

-a.c.

I see you
gentle red and white
peach blossoms
delicate like the life
one holds in one’s heart
like the name and beauty in
each one we know
and the transience of oneself
that we see in the quiet of each passing day;
gentle red and white
peach blossoms
I see you
quiet ones
like life in all forms one observes
that blossoms and takes its place in its day
and that resurfaces in the energy of species;
I see you
gentle red and white
peach blossoms
the same radiance runs
through you and me

I am raw, plucked
bare and overexposed;
ashamed of my emotions and
too vulnerable, too fragile
I am not threatened but I do not
feel safe, I ache to hide but where can
I hide from my own mind? I need
time to decay my histrionics and my
need for affection so that it never
resurfaces again, so that I never
resurface again -- I am drowned in
something benign but chaotic, replicating
it's mutation endlessly, perpetually, until
I cannot breathe because I am overexposed --
bare and
plucked raw.

We were once better together
When we were madly in love
All we have are broken dreams
Memories of what this once was

At night visit photo reels
Happiness left in the past
I was a citizen of your world
Instead of immigrant trespassed

Toss and turn in twisted torn sheets
Up late because I can
Don't sleep next to eachother
Holding grudges with gentle hands

We used to share same mattress
And blankets as well
Awake to face every morning
No reason to argue or yell

Into memories I retreat
With no success
Sound of your laughter a mocking song
And half-hearted at best

The day we promised to always be
Friends no matter what
Forever lingers on my heart
Perfectly etched with sharp cuts

The way you looked at me stayed different
Tone of your voice when you'd say my name
From touch to your kiss to everything in between
Only blue eyes remained the same

Our soft skin no longer free of marks
Nowhere near as fit
Smiles on rosy cheeks
Naive and unaware of the coming *******

Back then conversation was not forced
Felt comfortable baring our hearts
These days hardly speak to eachother
Were much happier at the start

And darkness fuels nostalgia
Resurfaces in its daily routine
Screaming when exactly and where along the way
Did you start forcing what you mean?

I miss the couple we were
Passion without the pain
When your heart was still golden
I wasn't half-insane

Hours and minutes spent in a hurry
And cigarette packs
Problems that seemed so significant
Give anything to have all of that back

I feel it....
The urge,
The scratch,
The knuckle,
The crack,
The sound,
The glimpse,
The silence....

Change, inwardly evolving into every step I make, every word I say, every breath I take.
What is at stake?

I struck myself at a forsaken introspection.
Becoming, someone new.
Someone dark, and someone light.
Someone who I never thought I could be.
Intensity strikes and the magic I have been hiding resurfaces.
I am many forms...
Of me.

I then, start to see.
She was just a cover, but now I unfold and surface at my most enlightened peak.
I feel me, I know me.
Yet, it's a monumental battle of self, constantly changing, having different outlooks.
Allowing perception to take shape into different formulas.

I found myself, lost in the darkness, and lost in the light.
The substantial view of solitude has awoken a part of me that was lurking in the shadows of what I thought I was losing.

Space, moving slowly, at a pace, with no fight or race, but a high vibration of intentional awareness that I now foresee, down, and high, the pits of me as I grow to actually be.

The me I had lost, the new version of what I thought me would be.
Profusely intertwining with chaotic yet peaceful mindless thoughts.

I feel it...
No hassle,
No chase,
No worry,

Just peace.
I accept me.

Humid August Morning

Packed in my mind lies, all betrayals of my past
It shows on my face like a ****** mask
Over the passing years nothing seems to change
Not even my wore out tattoos nicknames,
I seek answer; I search for peace,
  I am caged, I am seized
 With my innermost thoughts and convictions

What’s my purpose, which one of my petals is going to fall now?
Who’ going to step in and staged an intervention?
I am caged, I am seized, I am so loving ******.
Surrounded by happiness, laughter and some forgiveness
Once again, here I am taking another summer test.

  Open bars, aged faces, cold frosty Banks beers
An islander tradition nothing changes,
not even my tattoo nicknames, Bajan Yankee
Caribbean Queen and Meany heartbreaker,

However, when the laughter fades,
and the music stop in the most romantic setting
A black heart, a broken soul, makes old memories resurfaces;
I see so much, I heard so much and
I overthink so much about worldly things

How can I not go back to the land of the flying fish?
Or where the Bank beers are four for ten
Or where the rooster wakes us up at the crack of dawn,
where humble people just smiling
and saying hello makes a different.

The annoying mosquito buzzes under the protected nets
Till I reach for a can of repellant with anger and yelled who’s next!

I‘ve heard the annoying barks of the neighbor dogs
The unsettling morning news, but nothing as soothing
As watching a black bird singing in the apple trees.
Speaking to the heart of the humans souls:
Once again I am an Island Girl

*See how the nature trees, flowers, grass grow in silence
See the stars, the moon and the sun; we need to be able to touch souls

Pieces of me floating in cyberspace
each like a part of my flesh
alive and awake
i’ve forgotten the password again
and i’m locked out from me.

Need to hack into my own
Something stays lost
Just isn’t anymore
only a shred of what used to be

some memory resurfaces
bittersweet-it itches
and gets relegated
to whatever corner from whence it emerged

too surreal too fresh too crazy
to be remembered
couldn’t be moi?
could it?

-Vijayalakshmi Harish
29.08.2012

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish

I miss Sleep’s gentle touch.
Her kiss against my ever greedy cheek; becoming swamped
in the tide of cover and quilt,
entangling myself in her dreams.


I long for her as each days drag on,
but forget her as I lie
in sweetest, softest sheets,
surrounded by the blackness of my mind.


She has a bitter streak, Sleep, that is.
For she drags me down to icy black depths as I let my anchor loose.
She holds me in writhing hands that
poke, and ****, and bruise.


When my self resurfaces - at the beep of new day.
My soul gasps for air
in the screaming, sweating freedom,
when I break from her night-time snare.

Society's hot breath whispers its ugly secret

"You're not good enough"
It chants
Like claws to the skin
It rips up the past
Resurfaces old sin

"Forget the good, you've wasted away"
It feeds the demons
You've tried so hard to forget
But it's not that easy
You can't forget yet

"No love for the ugly, the ******, the poor"
It lies
It's way right into your soul
Digging up the dirt
That once filled the black hole

It feels so vivid (frequency)

---—---------->>>>>
                
                                    <<<<<<   ------------------------


Constantly thinking every minute. ^ v


Huh **** un be  defferent ?
            
If the NEW sttlyle is toby differant.



If these words were a drug

(  Cough- needle hits arm.  )    


                                               I will never kick it.  


----—--—-———--




Peep the will in me.





Emotional stability.




Responsibility.  ( Freedom = responsibility )




In  Truth  ,  Love  ,


& symmetry. 



My patience...

..........................                          ­--—-----------------------





                             ---------------------



My life After death



Only a lucky few shall recycle my genius.


 The lack of human stimulation



did not amaze him..


Annoyed with their commotion.


Lifeforms


distracted through mixed emotions.

The catacombs. the dead resurfaces  as I write this poem.



This is all expressed to my ocean.

Trust it.

Climb the summit.


Learn to rise above it.


My communication.

My operation.

My construct.




     He had a schizophrenic disease.

Disturbance Twin Pines

The simple fact this revered and honored holding location is almost perfectly triangulated it also holds
Ed and Virgil but on the sixteenth of July faint as flecked gold or the most gentle mood like reading
Someone’s mind or trying to cause loose sand to hold a form without a mold the only possibility if it was
Laying on the ground and moisture had formed a crust but you still couldn’t lift or move it to handle
The tenderest expression has to be left to the angels they are capable of both worlds solid earthly form
And the intangibles just beyond your finger tips the hoary frost on glass it is an ancient mystery visible in
The present the mist moves stands without seeming properties to allow it to do so that’s the richness
The almost unspeakable there are times that you can speak of such hushed things and talk with loves
Intensity with such depths it all lost to most even the most discernible eyes you have crossed boundless
Borders truly the frontier of the unknown has been bridged this is what appears ever so briefly and
Wondrously on marble cut to make the statement in its self this stands for permanent observation the
Parlance of deliberate and lasting meaning so how treasured that these words would appear you read
Them between the lines that say with heartfelt truth forever together so you have all of the above
Working and the truth invades your mind these words written on sacred stone can only be dreams that
Flow without end though the body hesitates and turns to immortal strands together formed by spirit
And Glory but in dreams these facts coalesce like on the deepest sea and from the depths a ship
Resurfaces two walk its deck receive structure get fluid motion unspeakable lucidity dancing in the mind
Leaps from the tongue steps that jumbled together some growing faint now sharp and keen the
Pleasure shared in mental stimulation exhilarating an all consuming flourish of peace holds you like the
Sweetest caress words spilling scrolling down hardest stone it is read and shared by the departed this
Connection is the result of celebration and the marking of another birth year has arrived on the calendar
What better time to stir the deepest emotions that you have shared Happy birthday I. M. I know you
won’t but just the same never fail to believe and know this writing was viewed on beloved stone.

While the clock turns midnight
A thought began to run
Her memories appear so clearly
Feeling her heartbeat
Pulsating within my soul
Like a second coming arose
She was enchanting
As blossoms resurfaces
Among the dew
I sit alone
Wanting to share
But my sight is gone
While the sun
Brings a new dawn

i still can't believe i'm entombed in about 4 months of the total of my life: which now stands at 30 years... those 4 months are like the facts of sunrise followed by sunset, summer prior to autumn... i should be counting my i.q. score as if i was counting marbles... to think that 4 months, spread across the cities: Edinburgh, outer-London and St. Petersburg are as necessary for me to continue to write (even though i preferred manual labour) as they aren't... i just mean... i have fonder memories that keep me occupied in what i deem the cinematography of disorientated cognition - but for 4 months of my life to be so designating the "progress" of my endeavour... it just so happens that we easily accept natural grievances, you never hear talk of god's imbecile jurisprudence among cancerous children... usually among the wealthy and the reasonably healthy: talking about the pointlessness of a god, using the most crass example: a tapeworm, or such other sucker. still, 4 months to provide the momentum for writing? the girl in question? last time i saw her, she was playing butcher with her hand, some idiot told her to cut down her arms, rather than her wrist... and the boy's friend? apparently he was diagnosed as bipolar... so all ends ******, should it begin ******... as a thought that's more akin to a warning: learn to let go.

epitaphs and maxim fit perfectly where livers and hearts
used to be - as to d.o.b. and d.o.d. - death? oh, i've met
him before, he released me from his trickster
clutches and said:
revision 2.0.
                     so i started revising
my life, undoing all the wrongs
i've ever could have done to others,
to my surprise, i was roaming
a wilderness - not a single person
in sight!
               deer and foxes,
kestrels and falcons, seagulls and crows,
woodland pigeons and sparrows -
magpies and cranes -
                    blackbirds and squirrels -
yes, death, i've met him before,
           i only wish it was the one time
that i had - kicking the calendar -
on a saint's feast day preferably,
to overcome them all...
                and when the *jaskółka flies
high, there is little chance of rain...
    but when a swallow flies low:
the chance of rain is imminent -
                  thus epitaphs among skeleton:
where once the lodged liver, now, a few words...
i've met death before, by my second time
i hope to place the laurel leaves under
poets' buttocks to epitomise laziness
    than on top of Caesars' heads -
for haphazard ruling of a dominion -
yes, death and i have met before,
in a haemorrhage likened to an epileptic spasm
we conversed ever so briefly:
before the hyenas of lost law came and
fearing the most audacious prognosis:
****** me into 7 years of imitating premature
dementia - as in any autobiographic sketch:
people lie...
                     boy meets girl,
        girl loves boy, boy loves girl,
   girl thinks she's perfect, boy thinks: well,
  there's always room for improvement,
girl tries to make boy into a piggy bank...
  girl stops taking contraceptive pills,
boy isn't informed about having to put a ******
back on... boy and girl break up...
                  boy heads home to work,
  girl is rich and continues studying...
               girl sees boy with his ex partying...
become Hera like jealous,
            ends up ******* the boy's childhood friend...
the boy played happy birthday to the friend at one time...
  the same friend that sent a picture of his genitals
to his ex... yep, the usual soap opera...
                boy's friend attempts to **** him
using the former fiance's knowledge in anthropology
about poisonous Amazonian hallucinogens...
              boy get high, gets fooled into smoking
the poison up... boy experiences a haemorrhage-epilepsy -
   gets twisted in a web of deceit, for some reason gets
diagnosis as a schizophrenic... resurfaces with poems
  such as these: no one has proof of anything like this
happening... Rasputin comes in to congratulate everyone
and starts to applause... the girl gives birth to son...
son doesn't know the whole story, will probably end
up killing the boy after his mother tells him enough lies...
          boy is waiting, rubbing his hands like a fly:
          whenever you're ready;
i love it, for all my education, i've only learned one thing:
   distrust everyone, and avoid everyone
                     and coagulate with a hermit's plausibility
           of the isolated life,
           in a society of however many millions
              who nod to the words: god is dead,
        and we are slaves unto the dietitian:
who begat in physics the calorie atom we so forcefully
                  occupy an interest in.
yes, death can come once more...
            all i see is skeletons and epitaphs -
  gravestones and where once a heart pounded:
                    some easily forgotten words.

I don't want someone in my world
who wishes to be perfect.
Because that means they will look to me to be perfect as well.
I refuse to carry this.
Life is already too much.
I can not be judged by them.
Who are they anyway?
I have all of these "flaws" that I embrace because it unstresses me to know.
I get to wake up everyday and be myself. The only person I've  known for all of these years.
I have tried to fake it.
I always fail, and I never fail.
So my resentment for you is alive.
And then,
I look to the corner of my wicked eye,
which forces my hand to judge.
And ****** you.
Hoping one day,
the person you were meant to be resurfaces.

i'm hitting the 3am mark again
on the good high,
the middle ground between tipsy and drunk

but alcohol is a danger to my perception
i mistake your lust for love,
your touch for care

when the light resurfaces,
so do my flaws;
new bruises on my legs
fading marks on my neck

but when the light resurfaces,
so does my rationality
i become a bundle of nerves again
regrets choke my throat and blur my vision

words can barely form in my mind now,
let alone the feelings in my heart
wasn't i merely another piece of plastic to you?

i cry for the trust i placed in you but it's no use,
all i know is i'm left wondering
when will my life begin?

stepping onto the edge of a cliff
golden prairie brushing against your skin
the frothy seas bristle as thoughts float adrift
as waves crash onto sheer white rocks akin

breathe, you are a tree
the breeze resurfaces and kisses a melody
exhale, let the tension drain out
as the sky tumbles to commemorate your tragedies

close your eyes, you remain a tree
your roots travel far underneath
allow the space to come from within
and from the heart so shackled, so begin

balance against the tide
sightlessly gazing onto present converged  
a foot on land and another in space once denied  
open your gaze to your experiences submerged

stay, patience, let your branches grow
sleep, meditate, let your spirit heal
as the waves crash on those tumbling white stones
and an inner smile diminishes your withering woes

True to
The saying
“The pen is mightier
Than the sword”
To your enemies
Deep-cutting and
Mask-divesting
Were every  of
Your  acerbic satire, also
Bitter-truth packed word.
“To ignore
His pen we ill afford
Nor could we
Fight him back
Word for word.
So covertly
Let us
Strike him  down
With a sword
About his whereabouts
Effacing a word!” they said
Forgetting
As a writer Baalu
Was worth his weight
In gold,
Whose books strangely
In large numbers sold
Though some of them,
To gut down,
They did try to hoard.

For want of
A photocopy machine then
Many were happy
To distribute
A hand-written copy.


Deep when you think,
Your pen when you pick
With it loud to speak,
Your subjects used to jump
Out of their skin
Scared of a basilisk!

Your pen
On your characters' neck
A pain
Was haunting their brain!
Yes your pen
Was their bane!

Dust to dust
You and also your enemies
With their sword
Had hopped on
Death's bandwagon
Yet your pen
Surfing back
The tide of time
Resurfaces again.

You tell me write it out until it heals
Write it out until it heals
And I'm trying to tell you that I am trying to write it out until it heals
but I keep stumbling over my words
I keep tripping over my own lips
I keep stuttering
and with every stutter
with every extra syllable
it's an extra hole that I am digging into the chasms of my own heart that I am trying to heal
and I'm trying to tell you that I am trying
but trying isn't making a difference because it's not making anything better.
I keep trying to open up these boxes inside of my own heart that have been kept hidden away for so long
but they are covered in cobwebs and layered with dust
and I am paralyzed at the thought of opening them up
because if the outside is this tainted,
what could possibly be on the inside?

You tell me write it out until it heals
write it out until it heals
and I am trying to tell you that I am trying to write it out until it heals
but when I was younger someone once told me that to fill a hole you had to dig a hole somewhere else to get the extra dirt
And I think that's why everything is getting worse and why it's hurting so badly;
I am taking the dirt out of my own hole to fill others with.
I am not willing to empty others or to take the dirt from someone else.
I am not willing to take dirt from somebody else to fill my own hole
and maybe that is my weakness, maybe that is my problem
because I am now surrounded by people who are taking my dirt to fill their own holes.
I keep giving and giving and giving away of myself to fill these other people
except eventually I hit a point where I no longer had any dirt.
And I ran out of dirt.
I ran out of dirt and I have no more within me.
And what happened was that everybody left.
What happened was everybody deserted me because I no longer had any dirt to fill what they needed.
And I was on my own.
I was on my own and I was alone.

You tell me write it out until it heals,
write it out until it heals,
and I am trying to tell you that I am trying to write it out until it heals
but with every memory that I grab from that hidden box in my heart
it resurfaces five more memories that I had forgotten about
and I can't bear the weight of it by myself.
I can't bear the weight of what they did to me.
I can't bear this much weight
and I keep closing people out for fear of what they will see inside of this box
because if they look inside the box, I know that they will leave and it will be my own fault.
It will be me who caused them to leave,
it will be me, and I will be the only person to blame when they leave.
I will be the only person to blame when they see these boxes
I will be the only person to blame when they leave me
for who could stand by my side when I have such heavy burdens?
When I have these suitcases of memories and when I have these travel bags of pain that I carry around
who could stand by my side?
Nobody should have to take that on.
Nobody needs to take on
and so I remain untouchable, I remain afraid and alone
And I am not sure if there is any hope that I will ever break this curse.
And so I hide and so I isolate which only makes it so that I don't have to open these boxes.
And when these boxes remain unopened, they remain untouchable,
they remain untouchable and so I myself believed that I am untouchable
that I am not capable of receiving love
that I am not worthy of receiving love
and these memories are drowning me.

You tell me write it out until it heals,
write it out until it heals
and I am trying to tell you that I am trying to write it out until it heals