Time changes.
Maybe you are right, people change too.
Certainly you are right, I have changed. You knew me, you do not know me.
I remember the delicious acquaintance that instigated out of a heated debate, when you stepped in as the peacemaker, and the yummy camaraderie we developed over conversazione about theory and reality and sea and to keep breathing. We debated God then, we bitched about free will and Spinoza and death and rock and roll and yes… your poetry.
Those gods that didn’t stand a chance and migraine attacks at 5 in the morning. I actually remember your nervousness about speaking in public when I couldn’t help laughing at your nasal accent.
Was there anything we didn’t bitch about? It’s hard to remember things you donot do. Aint it?
We shared what… Dead mothers, our tumultuous pasts shrouded in the mist of hearsay and fright, the limbos of our algophilia from the past that we so feared, some shattered pieces of body and soul that we gathered over the years. (Yes I remember you scarred forehead you incorrigible bitch) and a common addiction to sadness. From you nasal behanchoods and my textual batterings we established a connection, an unsaid vow to try to hurt ourselves in hurting each other. Didn’t us. But in all time I never hated you. I could never love you the way I loved her. And how could I? Could you grab love in your hand and shake it yourway? But I never hated you. I didn’t hate you when you hated me, I didn’t hate you when you ran away. Yeah and I was hurt too because you were. For not being able to give one thing that you wanted.
But now I hate you.
Not because you are on a spree of fucking every asshole that you can; not because you cant ask some miserable little piece of shit to mind her own goddamn business; not because you let ‘people’ between us and judge us. I don’t hate you because you can be a massive whore.
I hate you now because you are too fucking ugly. Gosh you are too fucking ugly now.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Saturday, August 12, 2006
(These are Nameseeks):
Name us, Oh please Name us.
Categorize our bit too; devise a no-man-culture. For periods of 666 years and all their iterations, Our Loneliness is desperately lonely without our identity. Haunting recollections of roasted flesh, and a trace back through the endless connections of mementos, we saw in the future a past that was, perhaps, actually the past: the name of my name on my lips. As if we were our mothers, who disappeared. In these countless years of rumination, we hadn't had our shares of prophecies... Such is the curse of our disposition: 'Eli Eli Lama Sabachthani?’
Thus spake nameseek: Cry! Cry, let’s hear our tears. Each of us is the sad formation of every other. We are also our hip-hop bibliographies. We are the commas in your scriptures, the last imperfect residue of Hexaemeron, and the fallen leaves of Cabbala. We befuddle ourselves by looking in the mirror, looking at ourselves through mirrors in awe; all reflection belongs to us, but none is us.
So name us, please name us.
(These are Namesakes):
We know our names, our last names that resemble others’. But we were born blind, ruptured spine and hunchbacked. Still raw, still flawed, still needing the bearer of our last name—Ceteris paribus, at the receiving end of god’s ire, the god of lost pieces and shared memories. We see the Niles of fate upon our hands that vanish and reappear with the advent of each hour, making us someone else. Someone, with our last name.
What passeth here in this dim-lit stage (This Sanctuary we call The Empire of Mirrors) as infinitude of fiction is our pantophobia? Harlequins and Scaramouch manacled together for only one act, that one act that repeats itself to the degree where rapetition loses its meaning. Each face is a simulacrum of another, each simulacrum imitating its father and so on till the very beginning. We all are Adams. Frightened and a-mazed, and there is no Eve—only sons, fathers, shared memories and lost pieces.
And what screameth here is the echo of each previous act, and acts still to some, our vestiges spread over the fabric of eternity.
At times we yearn for the memory of faded features on our faces. And what a gut-wrenching yearning that is! These times we yearn for the yearning to last. How imperative it is for yearning to last. For with its demise, we cease to exist and become only reflections for those, who bear our name.
Name us, Oh please Name us.
Categorize our bit too; devise a no-man-culture. For periods of 666 years and all their iterations, Our Loneliness is desperately lonely without our identity. Haunting recollections of roasted flesh, and a trace back through the endless connections of mementos, we saw in the future a past that was, perhaps, actually the past: the name of my name on my lips. As if we were our mothers, who disappeared. In these countless years of rumination, we hadn't had our shares of prophecies... Such is the curse of our disposition: 'Eli Eli Lama Sabachthani?’
Thus spake nameseek: Cry! Cry, let’s hear our tears. Each of us is the sad formation of every other. We are also our hip-hop bibliographies. We are the commas in your scriptures, the last imperfect residue of Hexaemeron, and the fallen leaves of Cabbala. We befuddle ourselves by looking in the mirror, looking at ourselves through mirrors in awe; all reflection belongs to us, but none is us.
So name us, please name us.
(These are Namesakes):
We know our names, our last names that resemble others’. But we were born blind, ruptured spine and hunchbacked. Still raw, still flawed, still needing the bearer of our last name—Ceteris paribus, at the receiving end of god’s ire, the god of lost pieces and shared memories. We see the Niles of fate upon our hands that vanish and reappear with the advent of each hour, making us someone else. Someone, with our last name.
What passeth here in this dim-lit stage (This Sanctuary we call The Empire of Mirrors) as infinitude of fiction is our pantophobia? Harlequins and Scaramouch manacled together for only one act, that one act that repeats itself to the degree where rapetition loses its meaning. Each face is a simulacrum of another, each simulacrum imitating its father and so on till the very beginning. We all are Adams. Frightened and a-mazed, and there is no Eve—only sons, fathers, shared memories and lost pieces.
And what screameth here is the echo of each previous act, and acts still to some, our vestiges spread over the fabric of eternity.
At times we yearn for the memory of faded features on our faces. And what a gut-wrenching yearning that is! These times we yearn for the yearning to last. How imperative it is for yearning to last. For with its demise, we cease to exist and become only reflections for those, who bear our name.
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