3 A.M

Lightless, listless, mindless,
This is me at night, or morning if your prefer.
Soft breathing, loud snoring, even whispering,
This is what I hear at night, or morning, rather.

It's easy to forget about things that bugs the Day me,
So very easy in fact, to be calm and tired but not to worry
It's just temporary, this sleeplessness;
Also, It doesn't kill me.

"I'm Here."

Part 2: here
Part 3: here

This made me sad pretty bad.

It struck me today just how empty things seem over here. Not entirely meaningless, not always anyway, just empty. Wake up, cold, shower, class, home for lunch, class, home again, eat or cook (unfortunately), internet, study/assignment etc, call Adi & listen to Fluffy purring on the phone, Big Bang Theory/House/Movie/Read a book, blog a poem and finally; listen to music as I stare at the flashing city lights through my window (as written in the poem below) waiting for sleep to come.

*sigh* I feel like smashing the clock we bought and hung on the wall. It's too loud. At least I'm at home alone, for a while.

Wakefulness

When uncanny lucidity plagues the wee hours of my consciousness
the tick-tocking of the plastic clock is almost deafening
with my arm under my feather pillow my sighs like bellows.
It never matters what my days are like.

My feet cold, I'd rub the soles against each other
the sshhk-sshhk sound of friction a comfort I relish.
Sleep eluding me though weariness tugs my very lashes
I'd glance out the window at the twinkling and flashing city lights.

Above the silhouette of lighted sky-scrapers the sky glowed
burgundy, maroon, indigo and sometimes even slightly yellowed.
As if some haloed grounds lay beyond the concrete and metal,
where moonlight bathes the world with silvery fondness.

Such nights, the morning after is difficult.
I'd awaken haggard and parched groping for the coolness
of cavernous stillness one could find within Sleep's embrace.
Such is the last refuge of one as reclusive as me.

Nevertheless out of my iron-clad nest into the loveless world
I'll drag myself. My compliance wearing thin as the days grow shorter
the chilly air a testimony to my silly pining for solitude.
The winds howl coldly, the leaves fall into atrophy, I'll lose myself into eternity.

I'm with you in Rockland:

I walk the streets
      of my old home and smile at the neighbours
      while their pets gambol on the golden grass
      their original owners dead
      their liquid whiteless eyes sad.
I walk the streets
     of Sydney, Melbourne, Beijing, Vietnam,
     where the ponies are fluffy, the pianos are phony,
     the pavement scarred with spit and
     the history scarred with irony.
I walk the streets
    of my life upon which I continually sigh
    as the tips of my fingers freeze
    and shuddering laughter echo
    in the plains of my love.
I walk the streets
    of ebony and ivory
    where music and lyrics bleed
    snaky tendrils of rapture
    ravage all that they capture.
I walk the streets
   of Silence that
   only the Moon could speak of
   only the deaf could mutter of
   only the dead could convey.
I walk the streets
   of all that is triumphant
   and gawk at the shining glory
   gossiping away with victory
   laughing, snickering, smirking.
I walk the streets
   of my father's dreams
   his countenance stern and loving
   in his hands, mine
   on his shoulders, the universe.
I walk the steets
   of God's lover
   but this is a lie
   one can only try
   kneeling, only to cry.
I walk the steets of my mind
    Within it, I sit and lurk.

_______________________________________________________________

Yes. I ought to stop posting my mediocre attempts and keep my experiments to myself. If I let it ferment long enough, or possibly just rot away, maybe there'll be something somewhat sweet left. Residual, but...sweet.

I'm just going crazy a little because I no longer have the time to revise my lecture materials on a daily basis for all my units to keep up with classes. It annoys me. Just as it does when my hands do not distinctly smell of soap. Fingers in particular must be either odourless or soapy fresh.

Somnolent and alert sad sweet and dark

Jack Kerouac reading 'On The Road'.

A day of therapeutic silence

 3 in the morning, in tears, hating everything missing everything

Sharp knives skinning chicken, fatless, silent again in the kitchen

Cussing as disapproval lingered in dark bagged, dull and dead eyes

Toil, toil, toil, backache, headache, heartache but standing still

48 hours and I'm done, breathing easy for a while now.

An attempt: Yellow Sigh

With stars in my eyes under the blanket of dead lambs

I lie in bed staring at the brightness, watching,

Precariously falling

Into the madness that’s being exposed

The fallacy of reality

Of which I may or may not know anything about.

Through his eyes perhaps the world is weary, sickly, deathly,

Through not just his eyes, maybe all eyes,

Perhaps the world is weary, sickly, deathly.

But how could I see through such a view?

Incapacitated as if mutilated, by the raw opinion and judgement

Of others so unlike me, so unlike them.

I seek what all men seek,

Love and all romantic things where I may be released

Of this vice grip of vicious clarity in which I drown day in day out

So I may never be let to express the tenderness I bear

Or be let to experience the tenderness the others are offering

For in the presence of their companionship I lay withered.

All of this, all of this, all of it I pour in the heat of desperation

As my beliefs in my abilities bubble to the surface

That has been stagnant and cold for eternities.

Not that the others may care nor ever perceive what I sigh of

Even as I fervently wish for such commitments,

The soul does not speak, it only whispers.

Let this confession of sorts never be revealed of its true nature

For more is to come in this fatal unihibition

Maybe more is to lose then there is to be gained

But wherein lies danger there be the love child

That cries and cries indiscriminately against the noise

Of time slipping away and rhyme making way.

In the fiery burnings of beatific souls, tears fall still

I dare not be as incandescent as the fallen

As  it was their diseased minds and rotting hearts be the cause.

Is it sinful to wish for their salvation?

Those souls whom nought, not even their own minds could comprehend

Those souls whom have been given life just as you and I.

Just as you and I they crawled, slept and wept in their own sweat

Blood rushing through veins thinner then the lines

Drawn by social conformity between reality and fantasy

The whims of the minority excluded

Their wishes and dreams trampled

Theirs, mine, in their dreary truth I stare in awe.

Might it be the lonesome solitude by which I live on

Or the torturous companionship of a lovely nonentity

My sensitivity ignored and ravaged

As her extravagance consumes herself

I watch and shrivel in my own time

So she may never be aware of my viscous enmity.

Forms, themes, validities, opportunities;

Not understood, I ignore and let what flows, flows

Threads of thoughts unbidden by checks of acceptability.

The elegance of the unbridled and their biting honesty I yearn

I endeavour

To achieve again and again and again.

Why must it be thought as bad or evil or wasteful

Obscene, mediocre and hateful

When things that overflows the world is as such

In nature, format, pattern.

In times of pain of which cause i know of but care not to ponder

I look at the moon and be silent.

I fill the blanks in my consciousness with pure anonymity

I fill the blanks in my heart with random oddity

Just so I could live and breathe today, tomorrow, next week,

With bottled joy and laughter when all is bleak.

And with that a spit of ruthlessness from a character

Whom i think i loved but may still love or not at all.

_________________________________________________________________

For what it's worth, I'll try harder more often.

Howl

"Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent kindness of the Soul!"

Somewhat obscene, yes but what entrances me (as with Fight Club) is the spirit. 

I paused halfway through the movie and attempted (and fail, obviously) to 'sigh in words', 'approach my Muse frankly',  something 'Honest'. As Ginsberg says.

But then again all the rubbish I ever write is one way or another something that is true to me. Perhaps I just need to put it all into a big picture instead of transient, fragmentary pieces frozen in a single point of time?
I'm just an idiot lost in a sea of confused realities. Just like everybody else, pretty much.