Saturday, March 31, 2012

"not about love" (a stolen title)

Would this have been a poem
If I wanted to rhyme

Twist a prose crime
Into music and so
Into syllables, timed

Would I be a poet
Sonnets and so
With stanzas that chime

The utter smell of thyme
As this loses sense
For prospected dense
Articulated flow

Yet a little pause
A little silence
And inevitable applause

Friday, March 30, 2012

I was taking a dump..and

if society is being crafted into a place where everyone is a storyteller, and technology is dictating the possibility of instant gratification in allowing fast reactions to theeir stories.. and everyone is becoming greedy, where individuals will become constantly depressed if not directly commented upon, what is the tool to mitigate this depression without sacrificing concentration on other tasks of everyday life at hand?

Wednesday, March 14, 2012


[Your horoscope for March 15, 2012

Right now you could be interested in pursuing a hot new business venture, raafat. Maybe you are thinking about going into business with a friend who shares your same vision. Or you might be considering offering your own services as a freelancer. Chances are that your current job situation is getting you down, and you long for more independence. It's OK to dream big and to make plans for a daring move.]

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Those who believe in god deserve trophies,

but I'm just a fella that just doesn't get the gist of it all.
now, true, I am somewhat an incompetent idiot, but I have thoughts about being and nothingness every now and see, I wish I was one of those chosen ones who believe in the almighty.
how cool would it have been if I would think that my brother's death is part of a bigger picture, a master plan!
how warmer would I feel inside if I knew that people that have died of AIDS, hunger and wars are actors in some scene with a grand finale!
how many standing ovations would god get for its non-defined, spectacularly lyrical literature that doesn't even pass the simple note that you can't harass me if I'm different?
"Oh, but the readers aren't competent enough!"
i would like to see you clap for that same author that made them.
then I would stand and clap some more as I hand you this trophy I promised..and this everlasting pain in the ass because I'm not going can go to heaven for all I care
fuck you.

i love the reflection of your window on my phone.

and that i will always refuse the intention to write, addressed.
and that i will always do. whether to you, or any other you.

less and less masked.
or more and more, depending.

the reflection, as it looses stimulation in my pocket.
i would love the memory of the reflection of your window on my phone.
the memory of the shadows of your window on me.

Saturday, March 10, 2012


This will be a monologue. This will not be addressed to anyone. Not a letter. Not a permission. Nothing promiscuous. Nothing suave. Words, unbound by reception - untampered by consensus. Grey grounds. Me on top.
In conversations with my naked, I light my cigarettes with a torch. Synopsis and the plural of that, of my future. Future disimpregnated from its connotations. Synopsis and the synonyms of that, now. Now, reenacted off prior unconscious drifts. Drafts of ..mitigated hazard.
Sand hips, as rough as rough.
Choreography, autonomous. Disregarding physical attributes of vacuum. Reattributing vacuum. Tailored reluctance, custom-fit aggressive images, toned, retoned, utter flamboyance, eyes open, eyes close, repatterned blinks, repatterned exhales, repatterned inhales and their respective sounds, tailored, custom, fit.
The books I burn. The books I read halfway. The books I read. The books I write. The books I fuck. All books.
Time, around me. The end is near, only in relativity. I cease to exist in proportion. Burnt. God complex, none, in its basic form neuronal, in its transport, static. As simple as simple comes. Irrelevant. Irrelative. Excluded, I enter.
As the best is saved for last, last pretends to exist. Hollow, the past does not. The best dies. Dies in plan. Dies in section, immaterial, nonexistent, my cigarettes, mummified illustrations of desire, unborn, unbeaten, decadent illusions of prospects unborn, unbeaten, decadent.
Infinity, claused, in absence of anything tangible, fiction. Everafter, framed. Infinity, null, unless temporary, unless per instant, always in past tense. Entrances to things that don't exist, coated as trajectories, made to please me, pacify my bloated concept of self, made to reassure me that I am. Next by next, I die successive deaths in dependent points of no return. My cigarettes, my cigarettes, sole evidence of my passing.
Pluralist doctrines in lyrical commandments, to enter, as entered. Already in.
The world as we know it, in my bed, is incomprehensible. The beat in which it beats, and every atlas in between.