crashing on boredom

What is this feeling we call boredom?
— was it always a paradox?
should be; life is in the roots
in the air — zigzagging between the nodes
in some membranous digits
and some pockets
the chemistry of boredom can only be measured
when you have really lived; or vicariously searched
through the folders of lives in some others’ kitchens
— the image, the simulacrum — those bread crumbs
that led you to some candied house — were you some
anorexic dandy fidgeting on some other street
tiptoeing through the woods
and the urban sprawls
you seem like a nightingale; singing some memory
of a future. Your posterity begins, when you fold boredom
and piecemeal it with the wings — you know you are borne
and bound to take off — outside yourself and inside yourself
ennui is a happenstance; struggle the happiness.▬

a female’s tale

I suppose I will be understood — when I die?
that death be my proof seems such a simple thing
a cliche, a blinding light which has no priority: no proprioception.
I am not going to die, soon, if I am going to die at all
it is a stupid thing to make immortal the person who has no mortality
denying them their temporality is denying them the identity to live

so, I will not die today or tomorrow, or the day after, if I am able to hope so
— I will torture you with life, with my life, the life that you wish to deny me
I will live with, with my sins, blessings, regrets and asking my God for forgiveness
I will live it when I exhale and inhale, when I wear a burqa or a miniskirt to chide you
for trying to shame me for my veil and legs — for in each I brought the beauty of living
which you wanted to deny me — by a choker of silence, no fetish I gave consent to
no sexualisation I gave consent you. I am sexual in my billowy robes; modest as I bare my legs: my lips and eyes will insinuate life which you tried to martyr me for with the helm of the shirt, with the housework I will do and you will never give me credit for and the children I will raise but will respect you more and the precipice of my tongue wanting release — a smarting, shattering, constructing orgasm which you feel you will deny me and I am a slut to want for more.

You are the slut for being scared of me — scared of all that I can achieve and all that I am more — when I wore the apron to shine the bannisters or cook the food I am still a soldier battling as an architect, close to godliness, close to the apex of a trinity: soldier, sage and stable revolutionary with all the vices and virtues you needed and more. I am the same when I wear my shoes; those minimum pumps required by corporate to stand in toe in height with men; or, many a times look taller and deadlier than them anyway.  What they think is the erection of the tower of their own bones, so amazing right, just is an ivory tower of height not the tusk of the mammoth, or elephant, not the planetary audience — when I wear the proper shoes to school but fail because I am nice — because you wanted me to be but wanted a coquette too which I could not be and shamed me the once in a blue moon grades I got because you were afraid to admit you underestimated me. That I was out of your league.

My lips be nude or doused with rogue — or doused with the flames of gasoline fuel I will not die today, by immolation, by spears, stones, guillotine or bullets, or you choose to efface me day in and day out like acid rain on the face of what you think are statues. I will not die today of ennui, of boredom, of lack of recognition — I have my cognition, my gears, my sword, my stones, my glass shoe that I sharpened to my spear and I have the hijab, the nude hair, the scarf, the nun’s habit, the shaved head, the colour blue and the habit to be relentless in my bones and marrow. My flesh may have been born from a rib that means I can be you and more. That was the lesson you should have learned when you swallowed the fruit with me. I am poison. I am potion. I am elixir. I can be edenic in the core. I am a rampaging beast but I also show the compassion of brotherhood and sisterhood. I am XX. I am what some call woman. I am mostly female. I write the laws of the feminine. Not you. Queer or straight. Religious or secular. I am irreplaceable. I am the rib you need and the fruit you will want to swallow. I can kill the serpent, the trickstar. Both the sinner and the saint. I will not die today. I live in everything in the ether.

I feel alone.

I feel alone.
And I have forgotten how to write.
once I use to flirt with linguistic possibilities
and now I just don’t do anything…

I don’t write anymore
writing has not been killed in me
but I don’t know what to write
or, how to write
or, is it makes sense to me to write?

I asked myself this question
as I write this, and in the writing what I wrote may be a start or not}
I always tried to be hopeful; I still am
I just think I am too old
my youthful exuberance has failed me
my life is nothing but security and in that I found insecurities
I had and have passions but who wishes to know them or understand – does it really matter?

Perhaps, I have failed for now.
perhaps, I won’t fail again.
But…if failures means I have tried
isn’t that evidence enough for some kind of existence…

survival via paragraphs.—

How I feel, is not necessarily connected to what I would prefer to think
How I operate, is not necessarily my personality;
I am clueless, a writer’s block in motion
“cock-cunt” blocking my potentials that I did not know
— do not know, how to exactly cultivate…
and I feel lonesome all the time…lonesome in my blood
like some odd sterile-vaccination to another incubation
an incubation that waits in the wings; I am a mouth full
of disjointed feathers; corporeal but not blood-stained
they inhibited the concept of death, in my mouth the feathers
waxen and wane like flowers in bloom and they recycles as
cat-got-tongue sort of feats…I am just sad, I am just lonely,
I lost that person close to me — Abbu, Dad, I don’t want to believe
that you don’t walk beside me — that all these journeys are now
mine alone. And I am not happy always alone. I feel angry.
This month I had procrastinated to daydream — been unable to
fit the home model of me in this new home. And it does hurt.

But who is willing to understand?

Not everyone will get it. They manage. They think you will. The same.
the same ways; nothing new — as the human world forgot the existences
of biodiversity. I have been unmade or made into plankton. Into a unicellular being by ennui and loneliness. I can’t withstand this need to be more as I do not know how the future will be cunning — how it takes my fate with a grain of salt? I will be the Red Sea motherfucker you will see how I wash you with salt and caribous and whales and I am not going to make a whale of and effort doing so — I am lost but have not lost. I feel cold but I am not numbed yet bastards! I did not wish to be trouble but I became trouble because I always yearn for what other people are taught to detach — the search of intimacies, the search of love, the search of sacred sex, a life beyond gendered expectations. I think people use all that is normative as manipulations, as fetishisms, but I do not know honestly how to be honest with those — I could only be me and outlast the lingering eye of discriminatory tastes. I yearn to talk, to think, to not be betrayed by obscene friends who had lived a life but chose to thwart mine.

I know I am no poetry in motion.

That I was chipped from the start, weakened already, I am no IQ wonder no genius in a refrain, waiting for a right chord to strike. I have no serpent’s tooth, no cunning fox with no tale. How I operated was survival and lacking what I needed to survive at best. How I feel is just the dregs of disatisfaction. Nothing in me on this was apt to binary. I was happy too to have heating when the minus degrees struck and food in the fridge. I wished I knew how to transmute disappointments in life as talismans of the future. Or, maybe I am learning the art but have not mastered it enough yet? — I hear distant city-life outside, echoing, wailing, demanding to be heard. Am I demanding to be heard?  — I am wailing on poetry, but the poem was also a soft pinch on your thigh, a flirtatious revenue to ask “look, at me, I am talking, but I also look nice when I breathe.” I am like the existential ugly duckling, waiting to swan and swan dive out of abyss, into it and peripheries and centers and all. Clipped wings may be coined for the so-called well grounded. I rather file them, adjust the bluntness and sharpness, so that walking, floating and flying can be done with chimerical speed. I speed into God; I know God will speed into me…—

confession (i)

I didn’t know that studying abroad would be a lonely experience. I am just into the experience so I am not sure how the entire experience will be; yet. And I notice people have more boundaries than me. There are a lot of cool White and Black people – people of Asiatic origins and such and I desire, hunger to talk to them. Talking and intimacy has always been an integral part of me. My being cannot resist it. It gravitates towards it as its gravitas.  People are just good at hiding or at bearing shyness. I cannot. I do not know silences that stretch due to stranger strangeness; due to anonymity. For me, I feel everyone is an adventure waiting to be explored; a university of individualism wishing to be learned and interacted with. Human to be humanly and humanely encountered and understood. But I know many people will seldom look at others this way. In a sea of bodies I am just well, just another body. Not even an attractive one. I am new. My freshness stinks like cleaning soap, disinfectant, like some form of ripeness that has ripened with the irresistible tug of the green. The men and women here are beautiful and presentable. They look healthy, fit, accustomed to walking. They have developed really clean and well attired aesthetics. I saw a woman from East Asia or East Asian origin with painted full lips – colour of poppies and blood crushed into the metaphor of richness and life. I envied here. I am plump. My skin breaks. I am not a beauty. My hair is the wires of a mess, cables of neural electricity refusing to find sockets or comfortable patterns. The climate here is colder. More foreign. My skin has broken with it. I am a noob. The gamer term encapsulates me and my personhood perfectly. I am a noob and it reeks off me like dying fish on some forgotten sands.  I have no sense of direction. Today, I was a bit in shock at looking at an official registration form that asked for my sexual orientation. It was a well definable space; a well defined definition to a sexuality. That hasn’t happened before. It was beautiful. But also a bit difficult to process. Then I giggled like a teen. I am in my 20’s. I am older than most people in my dorm or my class. But compared to them I am stupid. I am a social invalid. I am always at awe at how beautifully people do day to day things. I can’t do anything like that. Not yet anyway.

I was spoiled. Sheltered unreasonably. But where I am from many middle class or upper middle class people are like this; so are high class people. We don’t count money fast. We don’t know how to cook. We don’t know how to clean a bathroom. It just is. It just was. Imagine me. A sheltered weird creature among people who already know what they want from life. What they need in life. How to carve out their individuality. How to carve soul and identity into both paper and flesh. You may be disgusted by it. Rightfully so. I apologise for being so incapable. So immature. Yet, it was so fostered into me. So ingrained. I knew it was problematic but lacked the means to obliterate it. I do not know what sort of creature I am. I am not aware how to live. I am lesser than a baby. I am like Kyle XY without the brains. I am just me. A stupid. But I love the city. I love the openness. I love the liberalness. Love the scope of magnitude of chaos and harmony. Buildings here astound me. I am from such a backward land. I am not really even acquainted with online ordering. I have had so many privations. They are not so private or public. They just existed. I walk so much now. I love it. I wish I could share the walking with a beau. I wish I was beautiful enough both inwardly and outwardly; more strong enough, more efficient enough to be a proper human being. But I am not. And I am sad I was made into this half-formed thing. This failure. This tragedy. This inconsolable invalid.  I wish I could love more freely. Be decent enough to love.

I am like a carnival attraction. I am so carnivalesque. Maybe I look odd to others. Today I wanted to shake hands with a girl in a lecture. She seems uncomfortable and uninterested; she had bright red hair, coloured as a cherry. She spoke on Jeanette Winterson. On gender. And I didn’t impress her. I was just there. I was just an odd person. The guy who sat next to me just walked away not caring of me. And my flatmates don’t seem to think I am great either. I feel like the fool. The jester everyone encounters but is so scenic that no one would really pay attention to know. I feel so inadequate. In brains. Beauty. Aesthetics. Brains…I just feel kinda lost.

I don’t know if I am good. Or even decent. I just wish that the “me” I am can change, can evolve, can adapt and become better for myself. Also, for others. I just feel lost and the wideness of this urban wilderness both scares me and tantalises me. I wanna be found and rescued by myself. I wanna meet my spirit, my animal, my spirit-animal. I just want to be more than what I am now

writing about writing + a brief interlude through my mind thinking + some other stuff

sometimes in the clearing away of it
I see other mists — retractable wrists
opening into a marrow-song; it’s how I write
how I swerve into cul-de-sacs and tenable meadows
or can move from this and that freely…

sometimes my hands fascinate me
with their imperial thrones of bones and knuckle-busts
prancing or swaying, or sashaying or ridgeting riveting
in their own little landscape of hills and chasms; the original manifolds
the n-dimensional or called the hand helping them know mutation and staticity
via practice and kingdoms of versatile muscle and cranial conducts
with a few string theory notes mapping out heart territories

freedom formed a calm radius
a protractor mowed the lawns
yet I saw the vectors and vertices subtly skimming
parched my mouth enough to thirst their tongues
something complex in the daily humdrum of rare and ordinaries

sometimes, or perchance all the time I am a hourglass shifting out and in, into myself
it’s like breathing but unlike creating I think it builds cells bonded with oxygen to also flatland universes where my geometrical thoughts reach higher quadrants but also can be trapped
in the murderous grasps of the one-power of a decagon module of space…

there is no ink, but there is fibrous ink, backlit LED buttons. That ask me to tap not hold and scribble — what is modern and what is ancient here? Is it the caveman sort of way that it feels like I am also using the new archetype of stones and sometimes going back to the chisel or is it both for the cursors or the vertical space on the screen that helps highlight and punctuate my act of writing…what about that? I sample the box and what is inside and outside of the box. Paper bleeds and screens permeate other screens making a meshwork of digital blots that we call net…after all blood and ink rival water with their oceanic enormities of principles and prokaryotes-eukaryotes of layers of raw materials and symbolistic jargons.

Is sometimes akin to aether-DNA transcribed and transmitted through my writing? Does imagination also has a codex, a bestiary, a collection of nomenclatures, another manifestation or reification of DNA? Perhaps it does…after all my I fingerprint my keyboard buttons everyday…modernity has called that the new lock-key…which may have also been another interpretation of bone and marrow or muscle and veins…

a cryptographer of symmetries coming from both perceived aysses and assymetrical spaces…mosaic builds on the geometric… you are always a contextual tabula rasa or something like that…