resisting a memory

it has been a month.
your memory has haunted my dream last night. your shadow is forcing itself unto my consciousness
i want to forget you. i’m trying to forget you
my brain is writing a beautiful ekphrasis of us but i will let it fleet.
documentation will only forge the memory stronger.

this is how it feels like to resist a memory
you suppress it but somehow it still bobs into awareness

and this malady is affecting how i read
how i need to go over a sentence over and over again

so i read…

“that date coincided with the end of the reconquest, the long process of ousting the arabs who had occupied the south of spain… ”

“that date coincided with the end of the reconquest, the long process of ousting the arabs who had occupied the south of spain… ”

your smile the way our skin brushed against each other the comfortable silence the uncomfortable silence

“that date coincided with the end of the reconquest…”

say what?

if that sentence were steel, you would see scratches, manifestations of the deafening clawing, that scraped the steel over and over.
if that sentence were wood, you would see splinters that emerged from viciously going through the wood again and again. splinters that can cut my delicate skin

please.
let me read this book.
this is all i have now.

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my art in the park excursion

two things i am guilty of:
(this breaking down of thoughts into numbered buckets heavily influenced by the recent exposure to spoken word)

one-

i passed by the booths perfunctorily.
after all there is a deluge of art to be seen in so little time. hence each of the artworks got an average of only half-a-second gander.

but contrast this against the thinking, the careful crafting that must’ve taken hours and hours, and emotions the artists have devoted to each of their works.

the paintings and prints, deformed iron and wood, faces animals still life aliens, paint blots and gradients, deliberate or not,
they don’t deserve my peripheral half-a-second glance
they deserve a sincere connection
for me to study the theme the intent, to ogle the lines and colors
they deserve an attempt to be understood
they deserve to affect a human
to make someone vulnerable
disturbed
comforted

 

two-

i’m sorry that i’ve gone to the park without an intent to buy

words 6

the faux poet finds his words in places where sadness hangs like dust in the air
(that is why all his poems talk about sadness
though sometimes they are about solitude, but isn’t that sad too?)

when he looks in his bag and finds a memory
a string of grieving letters will toss itself unto paper
to prolificate this bittersweet recollection
while the eyes hold back an ocean

words 5

tonight i wish i were dead
as a flux of emotions overwhelm my flesh
and it feels and tastes horrible like vomit at the back of my tongue

i speak of love, and frustration,
and sadness of the clear dark sky.

***

non-action and madness possess my mind as it realizes
life is not fair but it is not unfair either, and all things boil down to probabilities
like how the convergence of this self and this thought in this space and time
is a product of chance, too.

madness

my body shudders at every syllable and imagery
at every stroke of the point against the frail

nothing is correct, nothing is wrong
the world is dictated by the randomness of evolution
we are luck-bound yet somehow everything seems like destiny

more words

darkness can only replicate the past
heaves of sighs, cotton cloth grazing skin
and a mixed up fucked up play of dim red light and shadow that makes all crazy possible

+

then life unfolds with a mind and arms and legs stronger than yours
resistance is futile, they say
but your body shivers, drenched in wet idealism, you run and fight
and you open your soul to air that can rust the stainless
the fragile becomes vulnerable

i passed the test didn’t i?

+

and we filled the glass with a viscous flavorful music that made the veins of the earth dance so the seas will form the careful syntax of geography and sedimentary rocks will bury themselves with the profane words and thoughts

+

oh obscenity!
i embrace you and kiss your sweet!

words

music, the fantastic time machine,
weaves fabrications of oedipus into the lobes of my cerebrum
until i hear nothing but the tale of the king and queen, fool and pauper.
the romantic prophecy resounds tenderly.

+

and i will peek out the window to find the helmet-shaped moon (or moon-shaped helmet) and the comet a man is riding and it will make so much sense because it is a sign even if i subscribe to simulism and this is just a rewiring of my neurons. but i will go and continue this life in slumber and declare Dex & Mut as a cornerstone of humanity and it will make so much sense.

“mutter in slumber” i muttered in slumber

+

wallowing in poignancy
sadness is the most tender emotion. the slow, the heavy, the holy and tender. dark and dense. and cold, holy, and tender.
timeless, spaceless, like a deep deep void

+

all of a sudden everything is obscene but it’s no surprise
this is the non-artificial journey to truth

041612

my sadness grew legs. they ran in the great expanse, slipped over spilt ink and words, purpling the shins. they tripped over the absence, wounding the knees
and a thousand times more its blindness assisted the falling
and a thousand times more it stood up
until sadness reached the superlative
and the blinking stars bore witness to its folly