Some lines on face, some on paper, about everything and nothing and everything in between…

I.

Some lines on face some on paper,
I forget often but they remain, get deeper;
And mind and body tucked
In beds of strangers I called dear
Should have named them fear
Made to disappear this night
Like magic like reverse bunnies
In dark hats becoming invisibility
Cloaks and I called in love’s fallen ear
Rooms shaken with almighty rage
Gods would have ordered in some
Thunders and lightning if we paid
Attention to the planets around us,
Rings of Saturn eluded us too, Venus
Cried tears of joy for some kind of
Show evaporating fast so I could
Clear the blue skies of their blues
The salt in tears always inadequate,
I need oceans to clear up this
Mess dry and polluted suffocating

II.

(Beckett said he didn’t write about anything, and I could say the same.)

(Jon Fosse, the Nobel Prize-winning and international Booker prize-shortlisted author.)

—Not writing about anything—

I don’t write about much either, but I feel. Too much about nothing and everything. Too much of nothing, often too much of everything in delusional perspectives. Scenarios in mind, like unborn frustrated children trapped within the walls of the womb, stop banging on the doors of dreams, build a bear, build a path around, or rot within the walls of the skull. Free as a blind captive, flow becomes overflow, and I drown soft as if you could kill me soft; I can ruin myself better than anyone I know—is this the POV of an idea, impersonating, empathizing, psychoanalyzing? Scattered all of them, I fail to tie them up in a nice bow, and they fly without wings like ashes in foreign winds, and I chase and revive them only to end up inhaling something once living. Now air is liquid, and lungs are tired birds. Abandoning marble thoughts but holding onto the web of feelings, like all those lines on my face forming insidious with every expression, happy and sad and sadder for happy is over, but those lines do not remember the songs but the lines in the songs try hard to remind us of buried moments—

III. Yellow red blue oceans we buried

Dreams also dance with nightmares when I am not looking.

Do opposites attract
Or is this yin and yang balancing each other? I don’t smoke
But I inhaled too much of the dancing smoke coming from my
Burning sage slow, steady and suspended in air—

I willfully forget and let my memory betray or protect me.
You betrayed me and protected me;
Rejection is redirection too
And out of all the primary colors
Yellow skies blue suns and red moons
We squeeze them into eternities and birth
Infinite combinations of new baby colors
We have yet to name them all and don’t forget
To laugh like gods cruel and jealous of the mortals
They escape the circus of life circle of life
Or hurdle of life I often forget witch is
Witch—

Dreams also dance with nightmares when I am not looking
In the oceans I see red blue, and yellow
Swirl on and on I am tucked in bed sleeping, so
Tight so nightmares can warn me about my
Dreams or dreams can whisper in nightmare-
Coded screams.

Out of sight out of mind is a myth too when I can still feel it all in my body and revive you now. The body and the subconscious blissfully ignorant and free.

A whirlpool in the middle of an ocean pulling me in but giving me dizzying exhilarating, breath too. Never had so much breath in a dream before, nor in life.

Did I hallucinate all that oxygen in lungs; what about my pulsing heart in your chest, your blood in my veins?

Mistaking the sensation as a miracle; the delusion is real; heart palpitations revive the dancing cadaver I carry around.

Yet the pain is Herculean and holds on to the parts the whole is all I have left — heels with red bottoms also get broken.

IV. Crashing out in “jon fosse”

My newly found habit of blabbering in a literary fashion I shamelessly borrow from Nobel prize-winners and my game of imitation is weak for Jon Fosse rambles better, so much better in fact you do not need proper punctuation and do I mess it up when the knife of an imposter syndrome cuts my flow of course of course, and what has it achieved other than killing too many of my darlings where I cannot even sit down and bleed properly in front of my “typewriter”, hi hemingway and I am in need in desperate need— no not in desperate but very much in need— of a new wave of inspiration to wash me over and no this is not a metaphor for something Freudian caution wet floor with no wet dreams I only drown in nightmares lately for being too free I nap all the time my sleep is messy as my stressy so stressy I throw in rhymezone word recommendations freely I get sore sore muscles from dancing in heels from shaking body parts to feel whole again, isolating shoulders from the waist, dissociating from my dysmorphic body my words cut open like a boxed magic trick to wake up the carcass of a soul and moving too much to shake the depression off like swift but I need something more swift something more sustainable something more sinister and serpentine and sophisticated to be palatable to the imaginary audience living rent-free in my head incorporating all that TikTok colloquialism into my not-so-serious poetic prose maybe I am adapting too well to the times mind has no breaks from the feeds and in the meantime I try to beat the imaginary critics and the phantom haters I carry in my head they occupy so much space but I need a revolution within, to kill the zombies their babies and every other scenario that would become nightmarish even in the most favorable occasions—

Writing is obeying, silencing, and rearranging the voices you hear in the silence—