The Perfectionist's Deliberately Flawed Jump (Draft)

I am changing the way
I shall introduce myself.
"My name is (and my first
name will insert itself here).
(my full name follows here)."
For that is the way to emulate
history. That cloud of a black
dog on the 26th of May
curtaining down on flashing
red lights. Like the ones
flagging the oncoming
locomotive. My plan is
to be the sticky sneakers
squeaking in their pauses.
Intermittently growing
into the backdrop of a
glorified personal history.
Change sates those on
squeaky sneaker journeys,
depressed and tired.
There are quite a few ways
of growing tired. So they
said manner of your
introduction is considered
an effective change.

My change is really a
simple refutation of
Darwin. The wasp dies
on its first taste of blood.

Self-sufficiency

Too often is the
human hoodwinked
into accepting the
arbitrariness of
circumstances. Too
often he is unable.
Unwilling and
unready. Too often
the words beneath
the words, he
chooses to ignore.
And too often is
the human left
sans self-sufficiency
lurching in the
basket by the
riverside.

The Religiosity of Confidence

Fickle, megalomaniacal
human imperfection
is an ugly thing. Divine
ordinance was not cast
upon those on Noah's
Ark or those who fell
off the heavens to
populate the world;
it is a tragic
misconception of
the history of victors.
The inheritance was
by default. And humans
are merely the pale
reflections of gods;
teeming in their
multitudes omnipotent
in their own inertia-
bubbled universes.
Overflowing into each
other in a desperate bid
to establish their own
ecclesiastical kingdoms.
Alas, they never saw
themselves defecate in
all their grandiloquence.

Pity.

Ibid.

She turned all things to
loveliness. Or so I knew
about her when we met
beneath that creaky stair-
case, in the self-satisfied
presence of Shelley. It was
the cliche of love at first
sight. In a mockery to social
acceptability, we rushed
headlong from coquettish
infatuation to passionate
love. Holding hands leading
to other things. To mouths
tracing skin stretching
infinity; and limbs
in a desirous struggle,
entangling themselves
with the fuzzy fabric of
the universe that watched
us from its circumference.
We revelled in our love-
making; our bodies would grow
taut in the act of creation.
I saw her everywhere,
floating in the mist
camouflaging ghosts or
in the scaly mirrors of fish
laid out shining as I looked
at myself a million ways.
She was the mirror which
made beautiful the distorted.
Expressed my world in its
eternal, undeniable truth.
My love overflowed to such
an irrational degree that I
learned, in a political faux
pas, the racial language in
which she spoke. I cherished
her message of course, but
for a moment in time, I also
began to cherish her language.
So much so that her language
became her existence. I did
not know it then but my
discrimination was purloining
a part of me. Spivak wouldn't
have ever agreed.

My first love fled the day
I let social acceptability
attire me; don me with its
obligations. I was not supposed
to be in love with her, I
found. She did not fulfil
the criteria through which
men became men. Or society
moved forward. We needed not
the truth. But the grit and
expertise of occupations.
I lost her the day I gave
in to the prejudice of
knowing what life
should be like.

Explaining astericks

* - under intoxication, concocted of timbre, a little coherence and a lot of potential galaxies.

My first love*

My first love was
found on a warm
dry continent
with curled up toes,
and a language in
the spasms of creation;
spanning my speck
of grain against the
cold unspeakably
quiet expanse of the
the universe. It was
chaos. All around.
Corpses. Strewn.
In heaps. Frozen. and
outside the furry fabric
of my canopy of my
infiniteseminal world.
I lived in the middle
of the universe. In
the dimly lit basement
of my first first love.

nota bene (the vagary of a somnolent morning walk)

Henri Matisse - "Roofs of Collioure"

the six minutes and forty-seven seconds

why is it that
sometimes
your silence can
complete
sentences
that linger
unspoken on the
tongues of people
you agree you
know just enough
about. In the
rewindable six
minutes and forty-
seven seconds of
my life, I can
only contemplate
of the breaking
sun and the
completed square
of an aircraft you
know very little
about.

Maybe like
waking up in the
darkness behind
your eyes and knowing
you are lying at the
edge of the universe.
Sated. Human.

Laziness leading to empathy

Poetry on
hungry stomachs
cannot be written,
understood
or weaved into
the fabric of life.
Culture is a luxury
not served with
stale bread and
scanty rice.

Expectation is
the burden of
discrimination.

Curse of the umpteenth

deaf Ludwig on
deaf ears. playing
smugly on the
discordant tapestries
of his eyes hanging
down; their string
ceiling supports
quivering
under his blinking
confusion. Chaos
and ruin on the
serene surface
of pleasant things.

He had usurped
reality. On umpteenth
counts. Tapestries
and the music swaying
- in many big lies.
It is after lying so
much that he feared.
That his gallery will
collapse upon him,
swallowing him
into their lies.

So he stopped.
He now lives
in the nooks of
those days,
we wish, life
had been
instructed to
ignore.

changing letter obsessing over many hair-like strands posing as time

"The Cat's Rendezvous" - Edouard Manet

the eye-painter's first client

On particular
occurences of
dejavu
the feline on
the lower left cornea
of my eye
stirs lazily
into a heap.
Plastercine
rearranging
form.
My right eye.
dangling
at

the beginning
of the world .
the cat
Hanging over
that potted
corner with
many many
people
heaped in
the geography
of squares.
she goes
everywhere,
tiled into
the scratched
landscape of
withheld
desire, dying
sidetable flowers
and that
unattended cup
of tea.

Steam, clouds
the chair and
the cat.