Bipolar Stream of conciousness

A thought is brewing: “Tomorrow is going to be ok, I think; I hope that thing will be fine. I miss my lover. I wonder what Sontag’s politics was; need to check that out.” My eyes languid, phlegm is commencing, but then:

“This system is terrible: We treat animals like products, and the earth as our infinite source and dustbin. I am going to write an essay on this. Ah! I really like my quirky character. Inoculating a Cimmerian radiance could, perhaps, add a new vibe to the novel, a different voice. All my other characters are whimsical. I wonder if this makes them one dimensional, like marvel superheroes. I should get into marvel and sci-fi; expand pantry of genres. But it could become a plethora. Nothing is excess is good. Oh… I should have slept 2 hours ago. I wonder if my lover is asleep. I should call her… nah, it is too late and you guys are pretty new. Steer clear of coming across too clingy. Hmmm, is she becoming the nucleus of my life… Thoughts of her is vacuuming most of my time. Time is not mine; what kind of egoism is that? There is no such thing as time, anyway. But, could I be some kind of egoist? Oh, no! I do not want to be selfish. Seriously, I remember manipulating ambivalent friends so I could get that coffee I like. Ah! I am so manipulative. This needs to halt. German is a great language, all I know is halt. One of my characters is German, a poet. Poems should be included in the book; it will enrich the story. But what kind of poem. About love, maybe…

‘Her eyes so bright and green, a sheen over my yearning for a beam – of life. Death so unthreatening; her life my armour, and I feel no karma. The strata, just the linage of rocks on a precipice. Her perceptive mind, my delight; My admiration, her contrived smile… The black bile can seep – it metamorphises into words of wisdom…’

Ah! That sounds way too Shakespearean. Maybe something about life:

‘Dwelling in the inner circle of life, awaiting the next abomination: A commercial coffee; hair tided so traditionally, if it was a phrase, it will be a platitude; a boring movie. There is that may sooth me – a new bud, a back rub, a tub – bubbles and water.’

Oh, wait! How did I fall asleep?

Poem: That time

That time when canvatinas died with the seranata’s swig, from his bottle, the musician – drinks. Us drunk, him drinking.
That time on the piazzaz; in Italian we loved; the moon bright, almost full.
When our pathologies, dream world and utopia fused… that time.
That time we fell under Rimbaud’s lindens on the promenade; I with a self imposed napoleon complex, like dostoyevski’s Raskalinikov; you like the lover conjured in imagination within a thousand novels; us like Ali’s Maddona in a fur coat.
That time I knew you were Amelie, and sweet like a French movie, well recorded.

Punching Nazis: Fuck-off, liberals

A spectre is haunting the world: The spectre of battered Nazis. For the brooding liberal, of course. Contemporary liberals make one swoon over idiocies spewed from every orifice: “Beating down a Nazi makes you a Nazi.” The pathetic liberal foray into politics is a venture best averted: It is of no use to the prudent mind to dwell in the morass liberal understanding of reality.

It must be easy; mind opaque with obtuse thoughts, while attention is limited to merely accepting as your reality, experience, as the objective reality of all, side-lining the suffering of others: Blacks, first nations, the poor, conscious women and the rest of us: The Nazi does not pose a threat for the white liberal; he/she is not their end game.

Of course “violence” that interrupts their “safe” cinnamon latte parlours (Starbucks) and “organic beef” burger embed convocations, is an “inconvenience” for them. Surely, the election of a war-mongering swine – a prospect any sane person would prefer over Mr.Orange – would suffice to quell any dissenting beat in the liberals heart – assuming they have one or two. Insofar the liberal can feel save pretending to be the culmination of “progressive thinking”, in their pretentious amenities, via the election of a liberal plated moderate Republican, Clinton, the liberal is fine: In fact, I claim, the Liberal is merely upset that Trump is now emblematic of his nation; his foreign liberal buds may vilify yankee-ism, which may perturb him; blemish his vanity.

The Nazi will be punched: FDR sent the whole army to bomb the Nazis into oblivion  – the man who symbolises the best of the Liberal democrats; yet, your own nation, embedded with ignorance a kind never seen, dictated by crypto and Neo-Nazis, and you, the liberal, are concerned for the welfare of the likes of Richard Spencer, who was punched and others who will be punched? Please, don’t make use vomit sideways.

Violence is the only skill worth sharpening to combat and quell Nazism; the whole ideology is war; as its core it radiates with notions of ethnic cleansing, prudery, dictatorship, war and genocide.

Ergo, liberal, fuck-you.

Passion Nada

Nothing I feel passionate about:

Cold showers against my inclination to warmth and comfort;

Summer on my mind, while the external is below freezing;

Chairs too unsettling. The bed cascades into perdition: Desolation, dejection, its fuel.

Whining is off the table; only wine diminishes the diner’s useless parable.

Hidden notes located, out of date, in the pantry – forgotten.

Ideas from the past, images no-longer relatable; the glow’s sheen etiolated: dead inside.

 

You caress the notion ‘passion’, finding warmth and comfort.

But all is ominous; news troubling; friends obscured.

Then love arrives, perhaps to kill you again: A death worth finding.

 

Yet the prospect does not hurt – because all passion is ad nauseum henceforth.

Go back to bed, the chair is uncomfortable; wassail with wine, drench the thoughts in chemicals… re-furbish your pantry: You are dead inside.

 

Wrote freely

I was asked to free-write, advised rather. Well… I am writing freely, while my mind is in some self imposed prison, penancing: Some kind of atonement for something – I do not know what.

I am now a bad person: Angry, easily agitated and in-different. Thus – unable to locate an amenity in the space(s) in my mind, I must leave to save others from my dejection, desolation and despondency. Venture out to a world to never return. I have to be alone, possibly for eternity or until death, rather – I hope the latter is soon.

The woods, a forest – also ‘the woods’ – a tiny shack on the land-side of the promenade, obliquely located on an escarpment: My hands hanging from the balustrade, body vibrating with the dis-integrated particles of a mind/body altering chemical… Possibly I could die gazing at Sun. Hoping the rays may blind me permanently before I die.

Perhaps all the aforementioned is falsehood, for my life now is not presentiment of anything.

Emiety – Short, pop story.

All felt like a shackle. She pushed and pulled, attacked and retreated: The fetters that attached her to life frayed; what she hated solidified, the chain’s locks tightening, un-tethering her soul and passions from the everyday stroll. Perhaps Emily sowed colours and ideas that simply would not match.

The tiring effects of the light, radiating from the pretentious chandeliers that hung at every opportunity and space the ceiling presented, matched Emily’s senile movements. “Hi, sir, would you like anything to drink,” she said, contriving a smile incongruous to anxiety vibrating inside… “No, thank you,” replied the sullen face, his now loose skin imprinting a permanent ‘sulk’ for his temperament. Though she knew it was an affront to her, even though it was not. “Ahh, why am I met with such reactions.” Her hand’s skin fraying unremittingly with every bleach soaked scoop of the dark brown tables. In fact, Emily’s hands were wrapped in cloth most of the day; her limbs functioned as a mop. She hastened to lay the scooped dirt on the cleaners, emancipating herself from the responsibility, a benefit that emanated resentment among co-workers. The skilfully sustained room temperature pierced with every swing of the kitchen door; a rush of heat with each shimmer of the saute chef and jarring temperatures accompanying the impressive work of the kitchen porters: Fluctuating temperatures intensify as the distance with door narrowed. Fellow waiters shifted from table to table, replacing each empty glass and answering all in-considerate demands of customers, smiles seldom abandoning their faces. The door swung on more time, the air crashing into her face, strangling, metamorphosing into a harness, enslaving her… Heads move to and fro on the other-side of the door’s circular window, etched with dark-green lines, forming tiny boxes…

A motley mixture of faces – some sad, most manic – almost converged into one: A diamond-shaped face, with angelic curves – reality and loss of it crashed into each-other… Sporadic bursts of lustre images and colours battered every thought and pierced every attempted interaction with reality it converged with – incessantly moving towards being a constant. A shudder passed through her body, shaking her limbs to near-numbsness as she pushed open the kitchen door… not her mind detached, her body moved without her consent… The image of a beautiful angel, a creature with glowing, ever-changing colours maintained a static imprint in her mind… She wanted to smile, her heart aching; but her mouth did smile – not with her free will – without her consent. The apex of her mouth enjoyed the image as much as the heart. She did not want this to abandon her, though anxiety culminated, her body flushing with the Siberian cold and the North African deserts’ heat wave…

To be continued…

My bed, my world

My bed is the vessel that punctures the most vicious of waves

The mind alive; I am stasis, organless in the cave.

Days and seasons pass in my wake; then a dish of change bakes: The ingredients confused, the chef on a break.

Let’s wassail to health, until the flavour is fused to define my stake.

 

 

Why I care less

The sorrow has been evaded or I have diverged to a new destination – indifference, perhaps. Fascination with saving the world – a tool for morbid occupation with grandiose ideas. I remember day-dreaming about being the principle barer of peace amid a war: A megaphone in my grasp, I would exclaim: “Stop, you are not designed to kill each-other for brutes that care nothing for you.” The last time this image passed through my consciousness I was eight and until its final ingress, the image gradually declined in vividness – the sounds, vapid. I am not going to venture to save the earth or the species from its eventual demise. I am inert to the point of being inept in this humanity business.

Altruism is the thief of hearts, the renderer of nonsense onto our moral understanding and discourse in ethics. Everyone is in delirium about it: The Youtuber consternates when his/her channel is not flooded with admiration about his/her kind heart: “How I housed a homeless man”; “A cop buys shoes for a poor kid”, etc. An affable face of declining media discourse and capitalism, the cop who defends the brutal system against its victims, have riveted their understanding of life to a false sense of morality… the bona fide audience rests intellect for easy, quick, simple emotional solutions to the problem: Charity of the lowest form. Here, the sage of revolution or change, may already be dis-heartened and join the cynics.

The liberal confuses, solemnly, the Nazi treatment of Jews with the revolutionary reaction against Nazis. “We must give them a platform to speak.” So they are elected thanks to skewed notions of change and false altruism that strokes the backs of the rising idiots class: a group of people, the new generation, that can imagine zombie apocalypse but is too imprudent to forsee a better world – a future without zombies and a post-nuclear war landscape. Yes! The worthless, valueless millennial even sees himself, only himself, herself, in the destruction of our species and collapse of civilisation. But one must not worry, for they have liked the altruism of others and the good people.

The revolutionary is confused, the peace is hastening further… Where do we begin with the so easily offended crowd; savage beings with not an iota of self-existence, but a meager dew from the waterfall of superfluous unity… They are unified under the gains lazily ascribed to liberalism. The millennial, his beard touching his toes, her hair a different dye from last week, Starbucks coffee half full, quirky nickname scribble on the plastic cup, perceives itself a constituent part of humanitarian apex, for the LGBT community may fuck in peace, women now have jobs and, of course, these are all naturally evolutions of ‘time’ and not the result of deep, violent struggles of men and women… the liberal millennial revels in the profits gained by the struggles of people who struggled for the very system they claim brought us these rights… And, never-mind the declining life of poor, single women or the farmers forced to pick the coffee beans; let’s us not discuss the LGBT muslim’s life under the millennial hero’s ally, the Saudia Royal family. Their only defence is the other-side.

Of course one requires the inferiority of the other to re-assert oneself. Yes! Trump and his supporters are emblematic of the anti-matter of this amazing merger of change and time… “Ah, Trump is racist, I hate him,” he will say. “Not every muslim is bad,” he will cry. But never will he, she, ever think of his or her own nation’s crimes that resulted in the formation of these Islamic ‘terrorists’; nor will it occur to them – perhaps their own soldiers are terrorists… “Not all cops are bad,” they will say, while the baton incessantly punctures the skin of many, filling the streets with the blood of the honourable. Oh! It is the bad cop, the KKK office, the trump-supporting minority in the department that makes the rest look bad… Of course it is not the racist, sexist, classist laws, the slavery of the prison industrial complex – the totem of the profane existence of racism… no, no, just a few baddies. The discourse oscillates between the fool and the racist; the rest of us are dismissed because a man name Stalin killed 90 trillion people and therefore we must be wrong before we even speak or think.

It is late, the screen is way too bright, I am tired, tomorrow is a new day and I do not care enough to elaborate. So, I will day-dream about a lover, a friend or the next book I will read or, maybe I’ll foray into the world of wine and list the brand that’ll accompany me while I stare down at the burning world in silence – Placid. Keep your increasing abhorrent ideas of humanity to yourself.

Art to life’s strife

Sonnets must ensue with every conversation;

pouring a drink is art…

I must paint over my aversion – to life. Today I am in strife – again.

I remember her: She stares down on my dreams; a spectator with me…

I love her eyes behind thickets; her laughter in a busy city…

The rukus with self is passing… “I am ok, we will be fine,” I hear her voice in her absence.

I am alone, baby, save me…

You are the key… unlock my pathos, I want to live, venture in it…art

Or… I am a mere snippet.

I must drink her love from the start; Epistles induce in our kiss.

Seeping romance is art… the drink pours itself from the start…

The cute girl cafe

She incessantly ripped what she wrote; who taught her this, I suspect a musing of a therapist. A person who believes to speak from an edifice.

Rip your withering: Therapeutic;

To destroy art is perdition: Therapy is mythopoeic.

 

A sip of Arabica, she gazed up – a contrived smile.

My book on the table: She stole looks at it – a woman interested.

A blossoming girl…

Men venturing this pearl – They lay inertia, trembling.