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Akira Chinen May 2016
The sound of the pens tip scrapping across the page leaving words scarred in its trail
The solitude of silence tapping its fingers to the skrit-skrit scratch musical noise
Paper and ink the evidence and accomplice of the deed and the crime
Is it the hand or the eye or the mind or the heart that plots what letter falls next
Is it the devils or the gods or the ominous threat of the unknown shaping metaphors
Is it for love and passion we let the words of relentless storms crash down upon the page
Is it to feed our lust and satisfy our desire that we stroke our fires and spew out self gratification
Letting the pen trace along and explore the papers pulp becoming hungry tentacles strangling prey
Acting as if fingers tracing hips to legs to lips to find warmth and moisture
Both hoping to plunge into the unknown to find and explore
Secrets of pain and maps of pleasure and caves of dark fear and bottomless pits of despair
And the most sought out treasure and most elusive prize of both nirvana and nightmare
The hands and heart of love in all its sickly heavenly beauty and pain
The pen stitched to our fingers and tentacles to make the skrit-skrit scratch
Hoping to make the perfect song and noise to draw out the map of everlasting
*LOVE
Akira Chinen May 2016
The pit-pit-pat of the rain drumming on the roof
In perfect sync with the beat-boom-boom of my pounding heart
And my pen won't stop with its skrit-skrit-scratch
Writing down what I'm trying to hide inside
Easy to write and type
When It's hidden in plain sight
Three counts of silence
Three words I whisper
Before I fall into dreaming
Three words that strecth
From dream to dream
Three words repeated when
The morning yawns in
Three words echoed
In the chambers of my heart
Three words haunting my soul
Three words I'm longing
To let fall out
Three words
If I could only say
Out loud
And hand in hand
Standing in front of you
Three words in the pit-pit-pat
And beat-boom-boom
And skrit-skrit-scratch
Spelled out in poems
While dancing
Madly in my heart
And caught in
My throat
Leaving my breathless
Unable to speak
Three words
https://youtu.be/baGEoCBX63U
Boaz Priestly Jan 2016
The most accurate tag on a blog post that I have ever used has been #transgenderRAGE.
2. The first hospital psych ward that I went to, they put a little sign on my room door that had PRIESTLY typed out on it with little puppies on the sign.
3. The orderlies there used male pronouns and referred to me as Priestly. Which made me feel better.
4. But, when I confronted the main doctor there, name rhymed with “cranberry,” he accused me of using identifying as a trans male as a diversion tactic.
5. I hated him, but bull shat my way through the sessions and got discharged after a week.
6. Months later, cue the next hospital visit. This time, it was just a diversion tactic so I didn’t off myself. Had my therapist drive me down there, I was surprised that she didn’t put on the child locks. Though, I never have thought of throwing myself from a moving vehicle.
7. In that ward, they just couldn’t accept the fact that, even though it wasn’t on my birth certificate, that my name was Priestly.
8. They used parenthesis, quotation marks, and had Sarla as my first name on my door.
9. My name is not a parenthesis.
10. My name is not a quotation mark.
11. My name is NOT Sarla. Though that is a beautiful name. San skrit for precious and all.
12. I am not a thing to be swept under the rug. I am not a girl. I am a boy. My name is Priestly. Do not down play me. I am not a “diversion tactic.” I am a living, breathing, feeling, beautiful boy.
13. My name is Priestly.
This was written shortly after being discharged from my second psych ward stay. Also what inspired my personal tag on Tumblr, #transgenderrage.
Rajinder Apr 2020
The string puppet hanging from the peg in the niche is creating an illusion, or did it really bend the right knee forward! I move closer and watch it minutely. This times it is his partner, the pink faced women with deep red lipstick and khol lined eyes, she certianly swung her hip... up, up it went in jerky moves... there, there her skrit twitched revealing her bare leg - the silver anklet girdling her foot reflected a fraction of light playing yet another trick.

My eyes move up towards the strings. I can almost sense a fading quiver as if someone was plucking them through the alcove above. I stand still locking my eyes on the two waiting for their next move. Pigeons flutter behind the skylight and the spell breaks for a few seconds.

I turn around and rest my back against the cold basement wall. All around there are books lined in shelves, artworks clutched in frames, photos jacketed behind glass, curios in various states of animated movement. The eyes gradually get used to the dim light beaming on the floor through a ventilator and scan the floor finally resting on my own feet. Who is this? Where are the legs and the rest of the body? I give up. The neck refuses to bend and the eyes can't seem to find another object. Every thing is still, there is no motion, no movement - even the light beam seems frozen, there are no dust specks playing in it.

Among them, for twelve days, I too have become an object. Lifeless, not dead. Confined, distanced, trapped, isolated in a place that tells me it is my home. At times other objects around me whisper, I can't catch what they say. It seems I am one of them, only that I have suddenly developed feeble sensory abilities.

I have possibly jumped out of that shelf, that one on the far right, and, am now taking inventory of my companions, my fellow beings in a museum closed for a long break. They - like me, I - like them. Objects. Each having a label, a business card to be exchanged in mutual muteness. Each explained as "Title; Year; Origin; Size; Material". Where is mine? Just like the mask on the wall, the bronze sculpture, the centre table and hundreds of others that have been confined within the walls for years. In a few days, I assume, I would be a curio, a large one, occupying one corner. Not entombed though.

From time to time when conscious mind fleetingly nudges me I feel some of these objects have been moved or shifted from one place to another, like a chair or a cushion. I too have become like them or forced to. Tired of reading on a chair I shift or move, like dust, to the sofa and from there to the couch. Like the trumpet on the shelf I am quiet, not disturbing the solitude. Unlike the colourful painting, I merge with the pale wall. But I ain't hung as yet.

Like the Buddha figurine my eyes have drooped, my hair matted and curled. I would soon be like the illegible spine of an old tome, stacked one next to the other. Lying on the floor, I take Shavasana, like the carpet holding its breath.

In another week, I suspect, I would be like the uplighter which doesn't respond to the switch on another wall. Filaments alone dont light a bulb.
* April 6, 2020 - Covid times - 7

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