Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes.
(Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.)
In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor
Sewing a shroud for a journey
By the light of the meat-eating sun.
Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun,
With my red veins full of money,
In the final direction of the elementary town
I advance for as long as forever is.

self-pity. another obfuscation

floundering, spiffy me,
vainly gain to hide
these desires, love,
ambition; while all
dear dirges quietly.
blinded still, am
starstruck, frustrated,
caught in the proscenium
of my mind.

what is the art of writing a story? does it originate from the heart of the writer's ego? or from the egos of its characters? can it ever elude the writer's bias & instead delve into the truth?

an invisible man with huge thighs, one diseased ball & small feet whose chaddis fell off.

the paralyzing power of cliches is that it undermines creative thought or even the state of rebellion. ironically it most often shows up when called upon to represent individuality. it seems the effort is to soften the blow and to assure conformity. it has unfurled its bland, squib banner at work today parce quo les biggies visiting work & its interesting to note how the sartorial preferences of people has taken the zebra effect. black n white probably down to the undies & french manicure. power dressing. even a white sticker with black letterings of my name has been given to me. can i stick it to my forehead? i have intense dislikes for stickers/nameplates/entry stamps that need to be made on different parts of my anatomy. here's one time am not gonna give a rat's arse n shoot the messenger. unfortunately i feel my own power undermined & regret wearing this black formal skirt today. wish i was in my dirty jeans & a pleasant top. nothing over the top. just enough to give people a vague itch. am trying to work my way around this i-conform skirt of mine. perhaps i can create a lull of security & wham! bang when least expected.
well i flatter myself & like all megalomaniacs give more credit to my existence. i have rebelled before but never have i been so self-conscious. it defeats one you know. really it does. i wont be able to believe my own ears if the issue was smaller than how cool i looked when shooting down a biggie. ha! i'll wait n listen.