an empty tragedy
a full theatre
an empty tragedy
a full theatre
quietly I live none i hurt noise and suffering around me subhumans have proliferated on earth
read what you write
understand what you read
wonder wherefrom it comes
I lost a place to stand on.
Imbalanced like a halm.
Tortured maiming beliefs threaten.
Diplomacy became truth.
honesty like putty,
rule by force,
deities of greed and gain,
observed by AI,
judged by the blind,
sentenced by all,
executed by myself,
clueless and lost
I owe life an apology. I am not sure if it would indulge an explanation?
Here is our life.
It’s analogous with our heartbeat.
It’s reliable, dependable and ready for anything every day.
But we are not.
Caught up in who knows how many schemes that whirl around in our head, do we give thought to life at all? We live life and accept it as necessary, abstract, but not really like this (magic) force of energy or a separate entity who/that actually has something to say for our benefit?
Are we the hedonistically narcissticating kind, the soul of the middle or grovelling the survival path? Be honest. It doesn’t matter but it makes you think. And while thinking :
When —, really —, do I e v e r listen to life? If life goes by the name of Google or Wiki, then yes, quite often. ...and maybe life is knowledge and data (too)? ...and maybe life is me without the I, but the us? ...but then, along came I... ...and my confident, convinced action drowned any voice of caution or direction.
Life, this weird inexplicable thing that keeps (me) going come what may.
Is life perhaps G_od unvenerated?
We use life like a wheelbarrow.
It’s there; it’s convenient; it makes life easier and you can dump anything into it.
Case of beers, junk and yuck stuff.
Occasionally we clean it up with a hose only to let it rust in a corner and then moan when the wheel squeals after weeks of neglect.
Wtf are we doing with life?
It seems there is life and then there is us.
Split existentiality in a race with split personality.
Initially, we are homogenized, but then, along comes the mind and drives a wedge to create the famous lifelong schizo-split, the beginning of the ‘don’t tell me, I will tell you’ kind of relationship.
“I, the great sage are (because I am many in my head) now in charge.”
Often, even if not verbalised this bluntly means:
“f…off life, there is more important stuff in my life.”
Another puff, shroom, swig or prick or whatever shit.
Life’s now become like a car.
It’s inconceivable that a wheel might be flat one day and we should become stranded.
“Where is the spare?
OmG. Call 911.”
“911, what is your emergency?” “My wheel is gone.” “Your wheel Sir/Ma’am, —?—.” “Fkcu yes my wheel, damn!” “Sir/Ma’am we are not roadside assistance.” “The wheel is my life.” “Oh, uhh, hold on please…”
A life later… as soon as that wheel is back, Voilà, ta-da, lots of smoke, full steam and ‘mindfully’ ahead.
Now life has become that pickup truck.
Big load bed and serious oomph between the …, oo-err, under the bonnet.
The wheels are now supergrabbers, they’re all on but sometime later you run out of gas.
Found deadish on the road going nowhere, load and all, and no life.
Now what? Stuck again?
I know I owe life an apology, badly, and then, as if scripted, I ask it the question:
"Life, what do you suggest right now?"
If I’d turn down my noise, I might just hear its voice.
*It’s been three years since I wrote the book ‘Intercourse with Life’.
– Seriously, I also got distracted in noise.
time that was
puffs of memory
maze of bewildered yesterdays
mistory, — misty, the color of yore
meaning beyond time
meaning as flavor, essence and wine
the touch of love
your look, my sun
rain in the morning
sweat on the sheets
stained is my heart
– but unfazed its beat
parched for life
defining the now
well-nigh a clone
human raindrop or sand grain
from laughter to reason
– a return ticket for life’s season
a packed of rays
instructions in smoke
stuck in the ancestral harbour
– with other anchored souls
imbibing with Nodding Lost & Co, not for rescue,
– but clueless suggestions where not to go
confirmation of mistakes
misses to missus and miss again
lessons of regret
missing, — spot on
regardless, you’re born to be great
align your want with who you are
want not what you are not
come home to yourself
– and find your place taken
dream sans the ego
a collarless pet
yo-yo in freedom
your leash of fate is unlikely to snap
too strong coffee
cream on my thoughts
foam through my pen
sweet words to read
stretching my reach
life in a pill
add tears and soul
try not to die and grow
dilute your ideas and you’ll miss them
deny them not and they could manifest
between forgetting and trying is life
live for no thing but you
another line Snow White?
another dream with you
go not for long
life could end tonight
Since I was young
I am on the run
Now, more old,
I am still running,
so I am told
I ran away from that,
that ran towards me
Upon reflection, I can see
how I was getting lost
in loneliness and fear
and rejecting even that,
that was dear
Running is my freedom
from the prison of my fate,
and the buried past
which keeps a live debate
and reminds of something
which stayed behind
Now I speed along malaligned
Running is my surname
Loss and pain, a restless brain,
a song in minor
with a sad refrain
Sometimes a tear in private
often I am running with disquiet
A constant fear to be too late
Imagine dreams thus escape?
The death of me is any wait
Therefore, night and day
I follow and obey
Running is my way,
bluffing also is okay
I run even though
my running days are done
some say it looks like tumbling now
’cause all my pose is gone
The further that I disappear
the happier I be, — I think
But, there are teardrops in my ink
as happiness runs too,
from the one who runs
Running, — my escape
towards a destination called ‘Away’
Tumbling, a persuasive way
to stay and not forsake
*Picture credit: The Emoji Movie
Life is about sitting on an egg, — partially.
When you’re sitting on top of an egg,
– and be honest, I think we are all trying to hatch something, –
and nothing happens for too long,
there is something wrong with the egg you’re sitting on.
Nothing is wrong with you, — of course not.
You did your time and probably more than was necessary.
No bird sits on an egg longer than they intrinsically know they have to, and neither should we.
If you want to bring something about:
change your circumstance, change your beingness.
If nothing happens,
get off and find another egg.
If you water a seed or seedling and it doesn’t grow,
you don’t continue indefinitely, do you?
There must be a benefit; else, what are you doing it for?
Maybe herein lies the problem:
We are the egg and the hen.
Between being both we get side-tracked.
We hen around when we should also egg around.
And both hen and egg have a best before date too.
Or, perhaps our egg got swapped while we were inattentive or in cloud-cuckoo-land. We might be sitting on a dinosaur egg that takes epochs to hatch,
and we only have a human lifetime.
Another more sinister reason could be that there is no egg for us. A hiccup in nature, an oversight, or perhaps a deliberate message of:
“You are wasting your time here, you should be somewhere else, sorry (hu)man, internal error, – reboot.”
I don’t think sitting on an egg is that much fun,
especially when the dream of what that egg was supposed to become has lost its verve.
In the process of incubation and brooding, you have probably also attracted a severe bout of eggshaustion.
Rest is advised but time is limited because it is now already ‘time minus one egg’.
Time and eggs clearly have some agreement.
Maybe ten time units are one egg unit, or who knows?
And, you are entering into major guesswork as to how many time and egg units are available to you.
At this stage of disillusionment with reality and eggs, you might want to run away to an island and just hangout and relax.
When that escape starts feeling like another egg, is it now the right egg? There’s nobody really around that could answer that question. Eggvisors are few and far between, if not entirely mythical. And, other islanders egging it out don’t strike you as the right reference model.
It is not inconceivable that at this moment you might decide,
“WTF, I’ll just grab an egg that looks nice and sit on it and see.”
The point is that when that first egg doesn’t hatch
and we finally decide to move on to another egg,
unless some inbuilt direction finder kicks in
and sets our compass pointing north again in our life,
we could become abandoned eggs or hens without a head.
Now, the second (nth) time around,
we have to apply extra amped-up effort and employ every ounce of skill and wisdom to bring our life together and make sense of it,
— and not accept a watered-down make-believe or a shortlived fake brochure version, —
so we can find that satisfaction which is inherent when our right egg hatches.
like watered down milk…
– indifferently choreographed between white and grey
– tasting like soup with too much thickener and too little salt scooped from a burned pot
– conducted by a metronome seesaw clock stuck on one hour for half the day,
and then suddenly nothing happens, again, and it’s evening
of night aeons and darkness’s conquests and shadowy ghosts infesting my mind
– preserving its light in a heart-locket necklace in memoriam
– where Nothing sticks like clueless glitter lost on my forehead
– when angels were sought and found only in thought but never caught
– of skulls and crossbones destabilising sanity with orchestral irrationality
of X-rays beaming through my skeleton ignoring my transient flesh in their own celebration of reflection…
– where demons dismember my heart and grill the tendrils of my feelings
– of ego-tripping maniacs grinding me to dust with their mortar and pestle rhetoric
– when my ashes become the spice of the devil’s lust,
– when ‘burn his soul’ is chanted by the karmic choir at the tortured gates of reincarnation,
and the cosmic eraser is bigger than any of my dreams
A day where…
Angst is the fire and defiance the air…
– blood is the drug knocked back with a double shot of death
– the soil that I stand on cries louder than hell pronged on a pitchfork
– I am misplaced like a bee on the sea
– I am like a butterfly squashed in the cooler grill of an abandoned racing car
that none of us asked to be part of…
because it perforates and slices with its shrapnel,
it blinds and dumbs the mind with chaos,
it breaks every ethic and moral and belief,
fatally demanding life and remuneration through recurring vengeance,
this day of the feasting vultures of dismay