a song for my itch

Say the words
Speak these words NOW
You can choose to read them
Or sing them like an acapella
You may even spice them up with a rock guitar
But please let out these words like you mean them
Read these lines to me just as I am writing them
Just like I have written them
Only then can I cry

 

http://0.tqn.com/d/space/1/S/G/9/1/EarthBallBlack.jpg.jpg

Who knew a lot could happen inside such a small round ball! (Source: http://0.tqn.com)

 

Listening to these reflections of my pain
Hearing these echoes of my frustrations
Will be the magic to unlocking the floodgates
Then I will cry
Then I will let it all out
These words are the ones that can cut into me
And start the bloodletting
Say them just as I have written them
Miss no line or cue or punctuation
Every letter has been put here with care
Every letter symbolizing every day I have lived with pain
Every word symbolizing the different sorrows that plague me
Every line symbolizing the years I have bottled up within
These words I could never get to say out
I have no means of release
Even as I write these lines
I feel minimal pain

From the times I have shaken my head
At the person of the Browne
The masks we humans use

From the days I have meditated
Upon the ironic portrayals of the Trent of the planet
The collective tragedies of our race

From the moments I have wondered
At the Tango’s stories of the family
The seasons of our lives

From the eternities I have sighed
At the Shard’s dirges of personal dilemmas
And the fight between humanity and divinity

And who’s to say how far we know or lack
When Julien keeps speaking from his abundance of knowledge
About how useless man’s knowledge largely is

The dark and cloudy days

Take it in step
Don’t rush the moment
Don’t drag it
Let me hear the words gradually
Let it escalate patiently kindly
Remind me of the sad state of humanity
Tell me something I didn’t know
About the depths we are exploring
Newer depths we might sink into
Deceiving ourselves it is the search for knowledge
Truth and liberation
Has the bar ever been lower
Remind me of the ridiculous drama
We all have been auditioned for
A game between fate and choice
How pathetically ironic
That we should quarrel over those two
Don’t rush it
In fact, this is where you take a pause
Avoid a premature climax
Break the progression to the peak
You’ll take it up later again

RAPED

RAPED

[High-pitched melodious music]

A newborn baby is born

http://i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/02183/baby-max_2183067b.jpg

How innocent! *sardonic snigger* (source: telegraph.co.uk)

 

I came into the world

Pure and innocent

Through a round, soft, most-abused road

The road travelled by all men

Both sages and fools alike

I was completely unbothered about the strange environment

I was invincible after all

And for my sake alone the universe had slowed

 

Then the buxom midwife raped me!

As she snatched me from my mother

And cut off that soft secure attachment

Like a sexual sadist roughened me

A patting here, a smothering there

Said she was trying to make me cry

She told my mum crying babies made her horny

She then rubbed oil all over me

Just the way she liked it

And mom looked on

She had even dared dip a dildo* into my mouth

Said she needed to suck out the mucus in my throat

I knew I saw something creamy in that sinful tunnel

Same tunnel that had traversed the road from whence I came

The sinful tunnel

Used by sages and fools alike

On the round soft road

And I could swear this cream was going into my mouth

And not coming out as she lied to my mother

I cried!!!

L..o…u…d…….

Mom smiled

Her baby was crying

I wish I could tell her what was happening to me

 

I was being defiled

I wept for what seemed like hours

Mom later told me I had cried at birth for about 50 whole seconds!

 

[Spit!]

 

The midwife had fondled with my fragile sinless gonads

Said she was wiping off the meconium*

Is coprophilia* even real?

 

Finally, rest comes

God rested on the seventh day

I was settling down on the eighth day

When the doctor pulled his stunt

 

This paedophile called it circumcision

As he clamped my innocent sweet little hot-doggy penis

And he cut the crown of pride away

Yet he wasn’t sued

 

Eventually I grew older

 

[Sigh!]

 

Oh father, dear father!

“Son, once upon a time I killed a lion.

Santa Claus lives at the North Pole

God is a sky-giant-djinee who lives to grant all your wishes”

 

[Spit!]

 

I am in for a life of lies and trials

Rape comes in different circumstances.

 

{To be continued…}

Word helper:

Dildo: Should mean an artificial penis, but I think what the midwife used was the regular suction tube for newborns.

Meconium: the first faeces of a newborn, usually stains the pelvis.

Coprophilia: a sexual preference for faeces. It’s a real condition. I did not make it up. Google it.
__________________________________________________________________________

BACKGROUND: As any frequent visitor might guess, this is a bit too vulgar for my usual themes in writing.

Anyway, I stumbled upon bits of this I wrote from a while ago and it seemed very appropriate to develop and finally post. This is because of how I feel when I consider the state of humanity and planet today. I feel I must repeat: even though my writings seem mostly cynical, I actually have good thoughts regarding humanity generally. Despite these good thoughts, the sad reality is: these are critical times to bring a child into, and I wonder what I will say if I should make it to the close of this century. I wonder how starkly different the next 50 years are gonna be, in everything –science and technology, law and crime, morals and spirituality, art and entertainment, ecosystem and energy.

This very thought is heavy enough to keep awake all night tonight.

Things I see and hear at night

image

That scene was actually lovely. Not scary as the picture seems. My nights are like that!

Do you mean to tell me you are this old and don’t know this
You have not tasted of the spicy fruit
Those top-quality clinical-grade hallucinations
Which someone like me makes money off

I see shadows and forms
I see patterns
They speak to me these people
They tell me how life will be
They teach me wisdom and experience about existence
They teach me without using punishment
They understand me
And I hear them and listen
They teach me on my own terms
They speak with soothing voices
Like that of a virgin seductress
Good blend of innocence and sultriness
They tell me of the fragile nature of life
And of how beautiful it could be
Like a perfectly delicate thing of high value
Something as delicate as these visions themselves
Visions that could easily fade
And details that couldn’t be validated
Because they change every time I attempt to recollect them
Visions so beautiful and precious
Visions that will fade when I sleep
The beauty of that short moment of insanity that will fade
After all, beauty fades
They tell me so
These voices
They tell me beauty is temporary and fluctuating
They tell me nothing lasts forever
And I trust them because I have confirmed this in reality
And for this same reason
I also believe these same wise people
When they tell me that the neurons of my brain
All defaecate semisolid gold
And so I have to explore my mind and dig for treasures
Breaking through my rock-thick skull with a dagger
I believe them when they tell me
There is a generator working in my brain
And creative sparks fly everywhere from the neural activity
And where there is no electricity
I’ll let people connect wires to my skull
I believed them because they have proven true time and again
These same voices led me through medical school
All my good ideas have come in similar way
The voices tell me I am radioactive
They tell me I am alien
And so should not allow others see how unique I am
That I can find release by hiding in plain sight
Writing things like this
Things which could easily pass for just another regular dribble of a mad mind
And how I believe these voices
I love them
These wise people
They speak to me
In that place, that time
Between being awake and being asleep
Which some don’t know of, as old as they are
And they have never had it as real and magical
As I have them, as young as I am
These beautiful moments just before sleeping

P.S. Maybe it’s just the special ones like me who have these moments.

A Postcard From My Life

image

{No, it’s not the road I’m on!}

Please pray for me
I no longer know the road I’m on
It’s a long road
With so many bends I can’t see a mile ahead of me
It’s hard to see far ahead when life throws you the curves
Nothing is certain anymore
And then the winds blow and I see sandy mists here and there
There are shape-shifters and I can never tell reality from fantasy
There are mind-shifters and I can never tell right from wrong
I am straining through blood-and-sweat-smeared glasses
And all I see are shades of grey
Not greys of a thunderstormy cloud
The flood would be an exciting change
But greys that becloud my judgment and sense of morality
Greys that want to make me regret I have a sense of morality
Greys that want to make me throw away my sense of morality
Along with everything else I have lost on this long road
Thinking I’d be travelling light and simple
Unknowing that some complicated baggages
Contain some bare necessities
For an easier life-journey

image

Ha! There! More like it.

{This would be it!}

Pray for me on this road I’m on
I left my car a mile and week ago
There are trees here and there looking at me
They are not bothered
Are they me
Have they been called to a life like mine
Keep looking, trees
Pray for your souls
That the woodcutter may still have a son who remembers him
And so he’d never have to retake his job to earn his living
Keep looking monkeys
Called to a blissful life lounging on tree branches
Pray for your souls
May I never find a stranded and lost soul-of-a-knife
At a period I may want to have monkeysoup
I am still too far concerned about wildlife conservation
And will not harm a hair on your butts
Besides, you are my only companions
No, I do not think you beneath me
I don’t have the luxury of that complex
You can stare hard and unblinking at me all you want
So long you acknowledge
I am alone on this journey
Though we be on the same road
So long you take a minute from your busy lives
To say a prayer for me
Thank you.

WALKING OUT, APART

walked away

I am gone and out so don’t
Gaze at my disappearing silhouette
Smell my fragrant bed sheet
Wait for my returning shadow

May spend years building the house but I
Painfully exit at slightest call
Don’t longingly return at night
Never willfully return to same place

Because once I obsess it
Tirelessly tears me out
Radically redefines my existence
Shamelessly makes me a full-blooded vagrant

Count yourself special if I
Remember to say goodbye to you
Take the pains to warn you in this writing
Send a postcard from any phase of my life

You don’t know or remember me by the moments
Noisy in grooving parties or hearty laughs
Nostalgic over wine with movies, music or poetry
Peaceful around music and dead midnights

And I most certainly did not
Make myself this wild way
Look in my wardrobe one morning and
Pick out this personality to put on

Welcome me with half a heart when you see me
Handle me with one arm whilst I’m around
Smile with your lip through the moments we share
Kiss goodbye with a one-eyed tear drop when I leave

_______________________________________________________

BACKGROUND: This appears to be another tribute to the outcast. It is about relationships and human interaction and loss. I am a scientist still being amused and amazed by the concept of human interaction. Its biological basis alone is something to sit at dinner with.
I should add here that the CLOSER you get to people –just anybody –the more of their uniqueness you get to see and appreciate; and this MAY affect how you’d react to their absence.
No, this is not a tribute to me; but if you feel you must make yourself believe it to be, well I can’t quite help you on that I am afraid.

PS. A few weeks after writing this, Trent of http://www.trentlewin.com whom I met here was planning to make a next step in his writing career and I felt honoured he thought to share his itinerary with me. I would be further humbled if he should remember to send me a postcard from the place he eventually gets to.

Of music and dance and torture

They are there again, just like they were yesterday.

photo-of-break-dancing-san-francisco

As if that was all that mattered. Wonder when that’d be me! *sigh* (Oh, please just don’t die from your fall to the ground.) (Source: online, unknown)

 

See, my day has been just good

I manage to make a living and don’t complain

But these guys just want to make me cry

I have never done anything to hurt them

I patiently wait for a snake-child to cross

If ever our paths crossed

And I definitely never hurt fleas

But they do not let me be

They know what time I pass by every evening

On my way back from work

They see me lost in thought in some part of my mind

And with the other part looking all around me critically appraising my environment

Looking for new stimulation and absorbing the world around me

They see me all the while nodding my headphone-padded head to some beat

So they settle at that same spot, right on scene

Working up the steam on their acts and arts

Up to that moment when I walk by

They start with regular beats and moves

They know I never miss the wicked musical gears and sound system

They know I notice their eternally killing matching sleek black outfits

They know I am not be able to stop them

They then work their ways up

Throwing in increasingly complicated moves

With recklessness, as if he did not care about living till the next day..

With recklessness, as if he did not care about living till the next day..

Moves they don’t care that it will take aeons for me to learn

The choreographer stands near the mouth of the formation

Not part of the dance because he apparently has a higher purpose

Watching out closely for my every micro-expression

At how maddeningly his well-planned moves are being executed by the dancers

The rappers take the centre of the platform

With lines that could make a gentleman go bonkers

Reeling out rhymes that could make a poet dream

Of the age when poetry must have been born from rap

An age that he was not aware of

They build up steam steadily

And when they know I draw closer they increase the volume of the mixer

Or how else would it sound louder in my ears

They know it’s evening and the breeze will serve them well

Then they show moves that make them seem to be flying

They sway and slither and bounce and lock and pop and stomp

All with every movement of the easy breeze

They make me read meaning into every breath and hiss of the air

They obey the wind

The rappers’ lines carrying on the wind in a way that defied physics

I got distinction in physics

But for the beauty I saw all those years in school,

They seem like dirt compared to what these guys do with the wind

Moments I wish I were deaf

So I’d not hear the steady booms against my ear drums

Making me head shake subconsciously like one having a focal seizure

Never mind, the bass would still make my heart and viscera resonate

Or better still, I be blind

Then I would not see these wicked wizards and shape-shifters

Floating in the wind at times and other times sharply moving like electricity

Never mind, the thuds of their feet as they stomp would get to me somehow

Lecrae-Concert-3-use

See, there! That moment when he (in this case, Lecrae Moore) goes insane, as if possessed by something inhumanly. And the crowd goes lunatic…. (source: online, unknown

 

tumblr_mg8gbxbhjZ1r9g2tqo1_500

That moment of mad paralyzing ecstasy… an experience to kill, or die, or live for…. (Source: online, unknown)

Then they watch for the climax

That moment

When a straight-faced calculating and sober-minded adult doctor suddenly bursts into tears

Because he cannot understand why they would taunt him

With such displays of artistic perfection

Don’t tease and call me “only human after all”

What am I to do

If you cut me I bleed

I am human

If you rap and move like that

I cry with longing and envy

Wishing I could be you,

Right there

In that moment

Wielding the greatest weapon you have over me now

Your mad love for the lines and moves

With that confidence and ease accompanying your ability to do them

That you know I can read very clearly all over you

In that moment

Right there

When a scientist who lives on and deals with facts and Pure and Undefiled Science

Is brought figuratively to his knees

Before a phenomenon he has no control over

As he literally quickens his heels

His eyes already leaking tears

 

It just is unfair!

DRUMS

 

And let's all get high striking the innocent drums... (source: goodmanlivingwell)

[And let’s all get high striking the innocent drums… (source: goodmanlivingwell)]

The skin stretched taut
It then speaks of things beyond it

The artist grabs it with both arms
With the force of pleading
Strikes it across the face
He begs the drum to speak
The drum speaks then loftily
As if of its own accord
As if it had a choice
It cries out in a tune too high
The tighter the skin is stretched
The greater the pain it suffers
The louder and finer the cries
With masochistic ecstasy

We then hear these cries and are happy
We put the dance to our feet
And pride ourselves like connoisseurs
Of musical sadism
A primal form of art
Of which
We are all artists
And we delight in pain
Whether when inflicted on us
And we dance in self-pity
Or sweet vengeful bitterness
Or when others around us suffer
And we gather round the table
To feast on the delicious degradation of others’ misfortunes
We express an unknown sort of disgust or shock
At some scandal
Oh the thrill we feel all the way
When we make drums of others

Even the innocent little kid is already being initiated into the art. (source: smithsonianmag.com)

 

[Even the innocent little kid is already being initiated into the art. (source: smithsonianmag.com)]

Carry your troop away
I want none of you
Don’t disturb this lonesome artist
Lounging out peacefully
On his rooftop
Where he has placed a mat
For him to lie stretched out skin-bare
Light-brown leather
Just another drum
But in the arms of a Creator
Kind and merciful unlike all these I see
And don’t you dare call me irritable
Just because I can’t dance to your sick tune.
_____________________________________________

BACKGROUND: Please, if I may very mildly say, I am not a fan of how ingeniously cruel we can be as humans when we delight in the suffering of people. Sadly, this does not exempt the seemingly nice ones at times when they have reacted in apparent horror at another’s misfortune. Meanwhile, underneath are all sorts of feelings and thoughts they would not be exactly proud of if shown clearly.
So, let none tag me along in these discussions. I’ll be sure to spoil the fun for you. Don’t worry, I won’t mind when you all turn your appetites towards the “misfit” in the comment thread, away from the true victims who need more from you than your clichéd expressions of mock shock, which seem to be ALL you would have to offer.

Thoughts Of The Constipated Writer

image

(Source: online)

Aha! Come now one and all
You simple-minded children of mine
Its evening time and your father is high
Come hear his constipated thoughts

 
/Intermission…
No! I am not playing on words
Yes! I am an unceremonious teetotaller
And these ain’t inane rants
Of a drunk old hungrily grunting fool/

 
Of the unwise poet who prepared a meal
In the pot of ikain* soup
Does he think artistic wisdom is to be found
In the potpourri of fascinating words and ideas

He pulls his shit together
As he enters creativity’s toilet
His eyes look ahead
Staring
Hard
Unblinking
Like an obstipated mad cow
And proceeds to desecrate the arena

He now holds his head empty of words
Relieved of the mangled mass
Now flowing out on the screen for all to eat
He can’t do any wrong
His eyes now calm and dreamy
Like he is seeing a vision

-(come away in your thoughts with me for a mo, please…)-
That brief moment that happens on the best and worst of us
When we peek into the supernatural
Into something too awesome to be earthly
That brief moment of clarity
So brief we soon forget it amidst the many years we live
So clear our warped mind soon denies it
Because we are used to drinking muddy tadpole-infested waters
And have grown oddly morbidly fat feeding on poo
Grown too tough for simple truths and pleasures of life
Grown too twisted to swallow anything straight
And create something truly beautiful in return
-(and back to the silly story…)-

Ah! But he is the lucky one tonight
He holds his head empty of words
He is ready to believe now
He will accept any answers now
This poet will even write mathematical formulae
And pass them for artistic inspiration
Anything would do

Just pray he doesn’t fall asleep
Before making sense of all the mess he has created
In the name of art
In the name of finding an answer to life
In the name of art.

image

(Source: online)
 
*ikain soup /i: Ikain/- a local delicacy prepared amongst the tribe of Earthdwellers consisting of Immense-Knowledge-About-Immense-Nothingness.

 
__________________________________

BACKGROUND: Someone has said that it is very logical for an artist to admit to the unseen as he considers the artistic process –of birthing a genuine work of art. Sometimes I find me looking for some inspiration from the outside world around me (only to see the world has not learnt any new lessons since the last time I wrote about it). Then, I leisurely finger through the pages of my current life experiences for something that might jump at me (only to realize they are too confusing for even me to make any sense of them to readers), before I try piecing together highlights of my past for a way to coin a story (just to conclude on how stale the little interesting parts are). Then I scour my beliefs and views regarding life in general for a quick lesson (and end up reasonably agreeing with others they are too controversial –for me to spit out for anyone looking for an easy read). Soon, I am desperately clubbing through everywhere for just anything to write, because my fingers are becoming very itchy. But sometimes, without warning, I suddenly start feeling almost feverish and words I cannot quite hear start pouring through my head. That moment, I know I have to write something, anything. And I write. And the words form. This piece is a mild acknowledgement of the process of attempting to create something sensible from a mess of ideas in one’s human mind.

P.S. If you are still confused –understandably –might I suggest you regard the father, the unwise poet and the author as one and same person.

Rainy Life’s Seasons

crazy man in the rain...

crazy man in the rain…

Sneaky winds jump around the sky
With joyous malicious whistles
Dark clouds gather together
In sadistic congregation.

/Intermission/
No! This is not just another rainy day
Another bland nature poem
Nor a hifalutin attempt at shameless self-aggrandizement
By a writer with inferiority complex

Carry me out dear nutty wife
Lovingly throw me into the open
I love liberating feels of breezes
But just a shell-y man scared to get out

The feverish anticipation
Of what weather holds today
Makes my body shake ecstatically
Like it happened last night

One by one
I lose my selves
My anxious personality
My prim obsessive-compulsive

The showers start
I look behind the clouds high up
Asking, daring the Creator-God
To do better than just showers

Ha! But I know
He can do more
I tell him I can handle his worst blessings
Tell him to come out from behind clouds

Then

From around the corner
The flood pours out
Across my village cottage
On a hillside

I throw away my cane
Bloody old man that I am
Take a gladiator stance
Look the blessed flood in the face

Flood hits me in the beard
Creator stifles a snigger
Flood sweeps me off my foot
I start to drown, laughing

Shame on me!
For all my boasting
Steee-rike one n’ I’m out!
Sliding down the hillside

A shameless old man
One-legged, dancing
Drenched in happiness
In a flood of rain

Screaming out a holy swearword
“God will be the death of me!
Hee-hee-haw-haw-haw!!!
Hahaa-hahahaha!!!”

BACKGROUND: I am probably one of the few species of men *eyes rolling* who show genuine appreciation for many different seasons (though I favour a burning sun least of all). The rains are officially starting in my part of the world and I never tire of how refreshed and invigorating it makes me feel.

the rain's awe...
the rain’s awe…

This evening, it brings to mind the many ways I play with the Unseen. As true as it is that science has explanations for many things, it does not make a case in court AGAINST the unseen and non-material wonders that exist here. The two sides can coexist. Forget for a moment the [visible] people that misrepresent the invisible.
I remember past happy seasons of my life… from the shocking big blessings… to simple pleasures like raining showers on my skin. And I am making new happy memories. In the midst of many difficulties faithfully stalking my daily life like psychopaths.
The Creator has got His ways!

A nail to the head

image

(Source online, unknown)

I now stand tall proud loser
Gracefully holding my head
Empty of any sensibility
Hence easy to bear
My heart beating passionately easily
Because of the hole in my chest
Letting out the heavy sea of blood
The heart normally has to cope with

So, after my head empties out,
What next?

I boldly display my monkey-tail
Put up as I scamper away in frightful flight
From all the stark raving difficulties
Faithfully stalking my daily life like psychopaths

Then banging my head on the floor
In manly resignation to the insanities chasing me
To end up contacting ifeelshadows.com
So the kind Doc. can help nurse my mental bruises

I throw hands up in the air waving like at a musical rave
Poetically exclaiming the hopelessness of it all
Before even my penned hands get tired and chained
For this whole homicidal act on the dignified person of poetry

And I lie on my damp bed
Stinking un-bathed soul
Drenched with rain of sorrows
So cold in this life I can’t get dry

Never mind I am shivering epileptically
And I have to cover myself
Keeping me further damp, sticky and stinky
Yet You(God) don’t stop

But in all this call me sad –a sad, sad man
Because I see even no relief or sense in suicide
I am no judge in this frame of mind
But least, I was sane enough to analyse my hopelessness

What do You want from me
Will You be happy when I let it all go
Throw out my life
And hang myself on a cross?
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