Oh, The Blabber

Here I am, sleeping, brooding, listlessly carving ellipses above my head. Or imagining it. Deadly proposition. If I call this moment the present, without further ado, shall I announce that I have already lost it? Someone told me I've grown thin and pale, like a crystal in hell. And that my stubble is not so young and pretty anymore, and deserve to be ungratefully eradicated. Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the ghastliest of them all? If I, someday, in the un-ideally cluttered universe, cultivate amorous feelings for a scabrous viper, shall I be branded amoral? Then, I must delicately brandish my hammer of defense, and whisper, gently but surely, You suck. I have never quite understood the concept of futility, of frivolous and fatalistic futility, for I'm quite the sunshine in the darkness. Or the darkness in the arse-crack. Either way, I believe in overwhelming the opposition, beautifully and subconsciously, by pretending to be flexible. Ah, insincerity. Bring it on. Potloads and jarfuls. Ah, quite the word. Insincerity. Tell me, invisible reader, and I beseech you to be sincere while you contemplate : Can there be anything more insincere as sincerity itself? How can you be sure self-deception is not a natural phenomenon, or opposite-polarity shards of consciousness, aiding or mis-aiding perception? To talk in absolute terms would be downright silly, in my humble opinion. The word is Humble, dear reader. Grimace sesame.

Now that the universe is seething with silence, and the airconditioner in my cousin's room has subsided to a soft, almost indecipherable swoosh, I'm reminded of the oppressive trick-question every thinker formulates to relieve himself of his role : Are not words empty? For words are not enough. Not enough. And I feel sleepy.

Ah, the deception. Goodnight, anyway.

And I Say

Prick me with a needle or blow me with your air, enchant me with your eyes or still me with your smile, bore me with your cynicism or shoot me with a gun; do something worthwhile, lest I waste my time. Make me write a song, not too short or long, lest I give you silence, terrible and strong. I don’t know how it begins, O lady of my dreams, but don’t deceive me with your form, oh don’t take too long to form. This is strange, I know, but still I softly write, half-crouched in darkness, deconstructing pain. Hope is not the word, so I dare not blindly spell; maybe dreams are all I have, for stories to sustain. Tell me this, and tell me now, reader across the seas : Is solace all I seek, trapped in a glassful of need? Hah, my soul’s not too bright, fuzzy is my sight, but let me tell you this : Darkness is my light. Pretense I may spew, like an artist’s alien hues, but sincere is my game, of memory and pain. Deception? Ah, quite the frivolous dame! Bite and shake, make and break, deception in your name. I have digressed too far aloof, and now I pound my blame. On cul-de-sacs and silent graves, on morbid fantasies, lame. Back to the point mister! I grimace and say, Back to the valley of sense! So here I am, silent and stale, hungry for new game. 

To The Unclothed Mattress At Three In The Morning

The night's still awake, do not pine. 
Trickle a lullaby down my spine.