I do not want
the end of november.
the pond
that collides
across my room,
the meticulously placed
aura of gloom.
not november.
not that too.
I do not want
the end of the cold
more dishes to wash
more laundry to fold
I do not want the end
of comely
november
warm coffe
and glisteningly lonesome
poetry
solitude.
isolation.
I do not want
the end o
of november
the end
of death
and snow
and all things
ceasing to be.
all roads
diserted.
a glorious
abiotic
existence.
I do not want
my month
of hardly mornings
and hardly afternoons
of dead poets
whispering to me
vers by vers
setting me f r e e
more coffe
more tee
I do not want
the end of november
the end of a century.
Showing posts with label inspired by. Show all posts
Showing posts with label inspired by. Show all posts
Monday, November 28, 2011
Sunday, November 13, 2011
sylvia in her flight.
soaring
fluttering
groping
with her intwined
lifeless
legs at flight
the particles of the air
in love with her
broosed
brooded
skin
8 flights high
small, insignificant
ginormis tower
of a building
jumped
leaped
sylvia
in her
shimmer
silver white
wedding dress
thats rather extravagant
almost
but not quite
elegant
it was not the child
screaming
weeping at home
not the hairy
shaggy
manic husbind
not the failed poetry
that in half a century
will be hung upon
a pedestal
as the model
of a masterpiece
non of that.
sylvia
in her flight
only thought
of how lucky she was
to end her life
on a rather warm
breezy
day.
fluttering
groping
with her intwined
lifeless
legs at flight
the particles of the air
in love with her
broosed
brooded
skin
8 flights high
small, insignificant
ginormis tower
of a building
jumped
leaped
sylvia
in her
shimmer
silver white
wedding dress
thats rather extravagant
almost
but not quite
elegant
it was not the child
screaming
weeping at home
not the hairy
shaggy
manic husbind
not the failed poetry
that in half a century
will be hung upon
a pedestal
as the model
of a masterpiece
non of that.
sylvia
in her flight
only thought
of how lucky she was
to end her life
on a rather warm
breezy
day.
Friday, October 21, 2011
حالمة
في حرارة المدن العربية, التي تبدو كأنها تتساقط فوق بعضها البعض, بدات رحلتي الدائمة التردد
أمشط شعري الطويل الذي بتلت في تربيتة سنين, أبني فيه انوثتي و تطوري المنسي,الغير مرئي, و لكن في الصباح,في قمة مولدة,في هدوئه و غموضه اصحى.
اصحى وحدي فالبيت . و لدقائق محدودة, وحدي مع كتبي و قهوتي و الشمس الخافته التي تخترق نافذتي اتخيل.
أتخيل انني الشخص الوحيد الذي سيصحى الكل نائمون, صامتون, غافلون
و يبدو لي: واضح كالشمس التي تزيد وضوحا من نافذتي عند تقدم الوقت, تطوري الغير منفي.
, ثم يصحى الجميع و أعود : فتاة تافهه, حالمة.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Kimitake: heart of darkness.
I am overwhelmed by the great sensation of ending.
heart of darkness I am, phantom of recurring thoughts,thrown upon yours lap, declaring a farewell to the awaken, moving, breathing, boiling world of the moment.
the world that once held my misconsipted ideas of a fair, Japanese moment of heard thoughts and misty art, of my belonging to so much and yet not.
I was a boy in east of japan, and my father digged within me the beauty and discipline of the military, the inevitability of an honorable death, the hope of a vast, widely destructive war.
and my 7 years of age did not stand a chance against naively absorbing poisoning words.
I ran and poured everything, in coffee cups, in cigarettes, and smudged up wanna be poetry, I feared my fathers visits to my room, his random searches through my paper his earsplitting, shattering laughs at my attempt , at tortured literature.
"kimitake,kimitake" my grandmother would call, and I would run to her as she would tighten her grip on my small shoulders drowning me in the fog-ish darkness of her somewhat abandoned room, and she would show me her dolls, hold me so very close, I could smell her banana loaf.
"what are you a girl" they would all say, and laugh at me, they would laugh at their own, stale, dull, unoriginal description of my artistic self, the young mindless boys at school, laughing at my poetry.
and my teachers would call me a genius would throw around big names of big magazines attempting to drain some money out of my well putt misery.
so I shelter my self behind the cluster of Shakespearean characters, drama class, I am Anthony, I am romeo, I am the lover of my time, I am king lear, and ceaser, the great magnificent ceasr whom my father thought to be an idiot.
and then they hold my name up high, say I am the king of literature, that my worn out words, stolen from unread books, that my thoughts, undone, melancholic thoughts, of a small revolution, of a smash hit grand revolution, are brilliant.
yet I am left in my room, as my father was, as my grandmother was, unchanged and unchanging.
I collect the best I could at one last attempt, I tell them of the thrush hold these dictators have, I beg the military men, I beg the tender hearted people, I am unseen, unheard.
I pic up the sword, the inevitable words of my mentally supprissed father, a samurai I go, secluded, cast away, in the haste of crept in possibility.
heart of darkness, henceforth.
heart of darkness I am, phantom of recurring thoughts,thrown upon yours lap, declaring a farewell to the awaken, moving, breathing, boiling world of the moment.
the world that once held my misconsipted ideas of a fair, Japanese moment of heard thoughts and misty art, of my belonging to so much and yet not.
I was a boy in east of japan, and my father digged within me the beauty and discipline of the military, the inevitability of an honorable death, the hope of a vast, widely destructive war.
and my 7 years of age did not stand a chance against naively absorbing poisoning words.
I ran and poured everything, in coffee cups, in cigarettes, and smudged up wanna be poetry, I feared my fathers visits to my room, his random searches through my paper his earsplitting, shattering laughs at my attempt , at tortured literature.
"kimitake,kimitake" my grandmother would call, and I would run to her as she would tighten her grip on my small shoulders drowning me in the fog-ish darkness of her somewhat abandoned room, and she would show me her dolls, hold me so very close, I could smell her banana loaf.
"what are you a girl" they would all say, and laugh at me, they would laugh at their own, stale, dull, unoriginal description of my artistic self, the young mindless boys at school, laughing at my poetry.
and my teachers would call me a genius would throw around big names of big magazines attempting to drain some money out of my well putt misery.
so I shelter my self behind the cluster of Shakespearean characters, drama class, I am Anthony, I am romeo, I am the lover of my time, I am king lear, and ceaser, the great magnificent ceasr whom my father thought to be an idiot.
and then they hold my name up high, say I am the king of literature, that my worn out words, stolen from unread books, that my thoughts, undone, melancholic thoughts, of a small revolution, of a smash hit grand revolution, are brilliant.
yet I am left in my room, as my father was, as my grandmother was, unchanged and unchanging.
I collect the best I could at one last attempt, I tell them of the thrush hold these dictators have, I beg the military men, I beg the tender hearted people, I am unseen, unheard.
I pic up the sword, the inevitable words of my mentally supprissed father, a samurai I go, secluded, cast away, in the haste of crept in possibility.
heart of darkness, henceforth.
Monday, June 20, 2011
marching homewards.
on we march.
homwards. and we follow the scums, the dirt, the animal guts thrown upon our heads.
but we follow the crumbs of light left over, from stars that passed by these silent woods some few centuries ago.
hope is the ugliest of emotions, hope has been a trader.
we kiss our wives, and children because even though no one heard us calling, even though they disparately tried to shut their ears.
our please loud and clear. this is war, perhaps not in the conventional way, but this is our own personal war, as we march homewards.
homwards. and we follow the scums, the dirt, the animal guts thrown upon our heads.
but we follow the crumbs of light left over, from stars that passed by these silent woods some few centuries ago.
hope is the ugliest of emotions, hope has been a trader.
we kiss our wives, and children because even though no one heard us calling, even though they disparately tried to shut their ears.
our please loud and clear. this is war, perhaps not in the conventional way, but this is our own personal war, as we march homewards.
Monday, June 13, 2011
joy.
pixie haired joy stands behind the bar, she whips it slowly, and thinks of all the things she could write about, the dwarfs hiding beneath the great rock of asdor, living for centuries in steep, deep, horror. or patti johnson, the smart mouthed beautiful 18 year old who took the world of 1940`s by storm, or the confused 14 year old lesbian whos secretly in love with her lab partner.
or all the wounderful cliche`s hard to be written, because her pen has forsaken her, because desperate messieurs have become useless.
but there is a boy, and isnt there always a boy?
a dreamy , wonderful boy that makes her dull life, her imaginary friends that have been quite lately due to the embark of maturity, scream, pound against the walls of boredom and limitation, bring down restriction,take up the pen and draw ahaid what once was beyond difficult.
writting.
or all the wounderful cliche`s hard to be written, because her pen has forsaken her, because desperate messieurs have become useless.
but there is a boy, and isnt there always a boy?
a dreamy , wonderful boy that makes her dull life, her imaginary friends that have been quite lately due to the embark of maturity, scream, pound against the walls of boredom and limitation, bring down restriction,take up the pen and draw ahaid what once was beyond difficult.
writting.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
the epidemiology of grace.
it wasnt something one could walk away from, it was a whole set of it`s own, a fully functioning family, an independent grand era. and we were young, we grew up together, we grew into each other. bits of us scattered all over the old basement. the small garden, the local movies, our lockers, our homes and warm beds.
Tommy left first, he left cape cod first, and we all knew it would be him first, he was far too intelligent to ever get stuck here. but still Tommy left with bits of us with him, and we waved and waved as he got on the train, with ceaseless, giant sighas choking us.
and Celin was beyond devistated. she thought they`de leave together, except she wasnt smart enough so he left her to rot in this dump. because she may not have been smart enough, but she was still smarter than everyone ells.
and then Michel left-and it just wasnt one friend leaving to study, it was our very core breaking down.
everyone was lost, and I loved you so much, far too much, and you knew that, you knew it very well, but until today I hadnt the slightest clew that you might have perhaps ,just perhaps, felt the same. and then seth became so bitter, Celin was out of sight, they repainted our school and our disks and our benches and our lockers, and our air.
and the lovely grand world we grew out of, the buds that held us together betrayed us, sold us, it grew without us, moved, lived, loved breathed, in complete carelessness of the our being engulfingly stranded, our loneliness our heart tearing breaths.
but then I saw you again last month. and my years of nostalgia, my years of misplaced scattered existence, interrupted.
your arms , and I.
Tommy left first, he left cape cod first, and we all knew it would be him first, he was far too intelligent to ever get stuck here. but still Tommy left with bits of us with him, and we waved and waved as he got on the train, with ceaseless, giant sighas choking us.
and Celin was beyond devistated. she thought they`de leave together, except she wasnt smart enough so he left her to rot in this dump. because she may not have been smart enough, but she was still smarter than everyone ells.
and then Michel left-and it just wasnt one friend leaving to study, it was our very core breaking down.
everyone was lost, and I loved you so much, far too much, and you knew that, you knew it very well, but until today I hadnt the slightest clew that you might have perhaps ,just perhaps, felt the same. and then seth became so bitter, Celin was out of sight, they repainted our school and our disks and our benches and our lockers, and our air.
and the lovely grand world we grew out of, the buds that held us together betrayed us, sold us, it grew without us, moved, lived, loved breathed, in complete carelessness of the our being engulfingly stranded, our loneliness our heart tearing breaths.
but then I saw you again last month. and my years of nostalgia, my years of misplaced scattered existence, interrupted.
your arms , and I.
Friday, May 20, 2011
red.
fall is my favorite season, so stuffed with wind and endless cups of coffee. poetry lights the ceaseless dimness within. baths produce rare minuets of calamity, shared loneliness defines most of me, I breath for the life of my mother, and my father.
I am there daughter, perhaps, however, I still live alone, I still find mobbed pieces of joy , leftover form the day before, in the back of my fridge, and though, though I have completely forgotten what it may be like to search for gratitude. it surprises me.
leaves scattered at my window, and days without rain or sunshine, days with nothing but wind.
this is what the very core of my life, the crumbs of it, have become.
I am there daughter, perhaps, however, I still live alone, I still find mobbed pieces of joy , leftover form the day before, in the back of my fridge, and though, though I have completely forgotten what it may be like to search for gratitude. it surprises me.leaves scattered at my window, and days without rain or sunshine, days with nothing but wind.
this is what the very core of my life, the crumbs of it, have become.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
PTST
the slim man, between truth, and deception, between reality, and tender fantasy, coldly sips his strong coffee, pulls his greasy hair behind his abnormally large ears, and gives very little care, for life is hardly ever worth, losing your cup of coffee.
he sits on his movable chair, his gray bleak chair in his gray bleak apartment, and quietly , anxiously stairs at the black and white footage within his palms, he turns around him, paranoid, runs to the pallor old curtains and shuns the sun out, and the unwanted unseen glances.
he gets off of the chair and crawls under the table, he pulls the footage with him, along with the book hes been difficultly reading, researching, desperately looking for a piece of harsh information to explain the terror he`s been in, some sort of medical explanation, rare scientific research, anything.
he pants as he reads words, slightly sheltered beneath his old mahogany disk table, and struggles to understand their otherwise simplistic meaning.
"schizophrenics experience delusions with constant sound of what they refer to as'whispers'" he pants some more, and takes a few seconds to self diagnose, "ahh, no..no I dont hear whispers, but but, but time, I cant tell time, I I never can one day its Saturday afternoon, and then its Monday evening, and I dont know if its October or November, I ..I" and he breaths in deeper, and clings to his coffee mug, afraid, terrified that they`ll come back, all of them, him, and him, and her and him, and the little girl with her dog whose never quite
and they said, they said, they`ve chosen him, on on some sort of mission, he thinks, recalls, abseloutly terrified, holring his head between his fingers, he sips his coffee to calm him self down, he spills a few drops on his shirt and the terror within him overshadows any sort of physical pain towards the immense heat of the coffee touching his skin, he reaches for the phone and dials the number...
"nayome, common nayome goddam answer the phone" he whispers shivering \ underneath the table "hello" the silky voice of the independent blond rises "nayome, nayome, you gotta help me, naymoe they`re coming for me , please!" "noah, is that you? have you been drinking again?" "no nayome there were these people who came over, and I dont know what they did to me, I am so terrified , I cant, tell what time, date is is, is it november, is 99? 1998, I dont, I dont know what they did to me naymoe" he says beginning to weep, squashed under the tole of the events.
"noah, calm down, I ll be there in a second".
the thin man wakes up, its the middle of the night, what night? what day, he dosenot begin to know.
life is hardly worth losing your cup of coffee.
author note:
as it says on the labes, this was inspierd by a movie, you wouldnt even guess, but it`s the ring.
there is something about the atmosphere of this movie that inspierd me, I realize that its not exactly the most, artistic movie or whatever, but not to blow my own horn, I am not even sure if its a complement, but I sorta see shit in movies that most people dont, its probably not even meant to look like that,
he sits on his movable chair, his gray bleak chair in his gray bleak apartment, and quietly , anxiously stairs at the black and white footage within his palms, he turns around him, paranoid, runs to the pallor old curtains and shuns the sun out, and the unwanted unseen glances.
he gets off of the chair and crawls under the table, he pulls the footage with him, along with the book hes been difficultly reading, researching, desperately looking for a piece of harsh information to explain the terror he`s been in, some sort of medical explanation, rare scientific research, anything.
he pants as he reads words, slightly sheltered beneath his old mahogany disk table, and struggles to understand their otherwise simplistic meaning.
"schizophrenics experience delusions with constant sound of what they refer to as'whispers'" he pants some more, and takes a few seconds to self diagnose, "ahh, no..no I dont hear whispers, but but, but time, I cant tell time, I I never can one day its Saturday afternoon, and then its Monday evening, and I dont know if its October or November, I ..I" and he breaths in deeper, and clings to his coffee mug, afraid, terrified that they`ll come back, all of them, him, and him, and her and him, and the little girl with her dog whose never quite
and they said, they said, they`ve chosen him, on on some sort of mission, he thinks, recalls, abseloutly terrified, holring his head between his fingers, he sips his coffee to calm him self down, he spills a few drops on his shirt and the terror within him overshadows any sort of physical pain towards the immense heat of the coffee touching his skin, he reaches for the phone and dials the number...
"nayome, common nayome goddam answer the phone" he whispers shivering \ underneath the table "hello" the silky voice of the independent blond rises "nayome, nayome, you gotta help me, naymoe they`re coming for me , please!" "noah, is that you? have you been drinking again?" "no nayome there were these people who came over, and I dont know what they did to me, I am so terrified , I cant, tell what time, date is is, is it november, is 99? 1998, I dont, I dont know what they did to me naymoe" he says beginning to weep, squashed under the tole of the events.
"noah, calm down, I ll be there in a second".
the thin man wakes up, its the middle of the night, what night? what day, he dosenot begin to know.
life is hardly worth losing your cup of coffee.
author note:
as it says on the labes, this was inspierd by a movie, you wouldnt even guess, but it`s the ring.
Monday, March 14, 2011
giant filthy feet.
yes, I have.
it seems as if I am this completely isolated being, no one begins to understand my deepest thoughts, though my unusual dreams are heartbreakingly simple.
I am not who you think I am.
I do not wake up to hurt, I do not sleep to dream.
I am shattered.
I am steps, mere steps away from total and complete break down.
but I seem ever so powerful so you step on me with your giant filthy feet, and your piercing words, and I laugh at you, to show you how immensely pathetic your attempts are as I slowly, and gradually , break, within.
yes, I have been hurt, yes I am hurt.
it seems as if I am this completely isolated being, no one begins to understand my deepest thoughts, though my unusual dreams are heartbreakingly simple.
I am not who you think I am.
I do not wake up to hurt, I do not sleep to dream.
I am shattered.
I am steps, mere steps away from total and complete break down.
but I seem ever so powerful so you step on me with your giant filthy feet, and your piercing words, and I laugh at you, to show you how immensely pathetic your attempts are as I slowly, and gradually , break, within.
yes, I have been hurt, yes I am hurt.
snow
I am on the roof, and I observe the coats of snow randomly scatter across houses, streets, lamp posts, mail boxes, rooftops.
Eternal wistfulness bubbles within, longing for a place I've never seen, so melancholy, I am berried within a coat, a shawl and a berate,
seasonal depression and a cup of coffee.Friday, August 20, 2010
schizophrenia
I run around , the thin walls of this hospital, it saddens me that I now feel at home, if I do, then that only proves that I have declared defeat.
and that is something I dont ever intend on declaring
yes, they do all live within me, and I do admit so.
but dose that mean I have declared defeat, not as far as I know, but then again, most of the time I dont really know much.
The voices made there debut only 4 years ago, in comparecant to all the girls with me, I am a new comer apparently.
they form a fortress around your brain, locking thoughts and influences from coming in and out.
the whispers consumed all that surrounds me, they came out of the tv, the radio, at some point even the light bulb spoke to me, all announcing the same declaration, you are absolutely worthless, why should you even live.
at first I thought they were mere insecurities, scarcely anything to worry about.
tell my insecurities started talking to me taking the shapes of bizarre creatures.
it felt as if I was living in a prison of my own mind, aliens wanted to abduct me, terrorist held me hostage, all withing the few yards that are my apartment.
my mother came to visit me, only to discover the shrine which was my apartment and the disarray which was me.
she at first thought that I was on drugs, she tested me, and I passed.
there was only one other probability, one which she so grievously attempted to nudge away, however she eventually caved in and took me to the psychologist.
after further examination , the doctor spoke one word, that changed my life as I know it.
schizophrenia.
a mental illness , with side effects such as delusions and paranoia
the word schizophrenia became my life, it labeled me, consumed me, and took full control of every thought, hope, dream, nightmare.
oh yes, nightmare, I sure as hell had a whole lot of those.
all my writings became hallucination, my paintings blur, all passion turned into pure and utter hopless hatred.
my mother, recommended by my doctor, put me where I am, this mental institution, this hospital, this cage, this home.
it terrifies me, I consider it home, the girls here more friends to me my own sisters, the medicine better then any food, the nurses touch, better then my own mothers.
I am being discharged in a week, I wont go back, no to where I am all alone, under the complete mercy of my very own demons.
I wouldnt allow it.
"hello cassy" here it begins, ok, haah, hoooh, take another deep breath, haaah hoooh "doctor, oh doctor I need hepl I really need help" the doctor wasnt as concerned as I hoped, another breath"Benjamen franklin wants me to die doctor, I was reading a book yesterday, and he told me so, he says If I dont I am going to destroy this whole building, doctor I am afraid, everyone`s safety and well being is at risk! you must do something"
out of breath I just stared at him, now I could see genuine concern in his eyes, much more sincere then my own father`s who hasnt visited me once since I have been here, how am I suppose to leave, and head back to them.
"oh, relax cassy, its all going to be all right" he itched his bald spot, and whispers something to the nurse, who went to git my medication.
thank god.
I am not going any were.
I do realize this only emphasizes the level of my insanity,
But
it also sequres my happines.
Friday, August 13, 2010
midnight show
Honey, I waited all night
I know I am no beauty pagan winner
But I stayed here all night!
I wrote you songs
Ones with melody and rhymes
Stayed up all night long
Hard times..
In this shrine you call a living room
I have endured disrespect
I have endured your piercing glances
With which you infect
I have endured your smelly midnights
And your foggy toilet
Just as it gets better
You go ahead and spoil it
Atta boy
Way to go
You’re the best of the best
At your little show
Sweetie I know your daddy left you
I know your all alone
I know your mama beat you
I always hear you moan
Sweetie you know my arms are open
You know I wait all night
But at some point I will get tired
It’s a battle I can no longer fight
author note:
I do realize that the picture of Edi Sedgwick hardly has anything to do with the poem, but its the same self destructive artistic feel to me, so i put it up
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)