Asghar Abbas's Blog - Posts Tagged "2015"
Carne Populi
I don't want to wait any longer, I need those colors now, but since I can't have the stolen colors ever again, I'd want something else all together. I've thought about it and I really want those colors. Still. I'll settle for this. I'll surprise you by not surprising you.
I want to kiss you, you know that right ? I do ; somewhere between your reality and my fiction but mostly just in your reality.
Somewhere in my fiction you are already kissing me hungrily, but when did I allow you to do that ? I know you have been wanting to kiss me for some time now, you have been thinking about it a lot and even writing about it. Though you are not even a Writer. But it's different when you want to, when you are the one yearning it is a different thing, right? Then what I want goes out the window, and my consent doesn't matter.
Oddly enough, I've been missing you, wanting to be inside you. I really miss wanting to do things to you. For you make me feel good about the things I do to you.
It's like I'm on a verge of losing, myself or even your colors.
So.
Put me in your mouth.
Swallow me please.
And then swallow me whole.
Shh, stay keeping sitting, keep me pinned, don't move, the inside of my wrists under the soles of your feet; my soul under yours and your softness on me.
Your whole weight, you astride, is making me real, keep going.
I am truly sorry but I'll never doubt your pinkness ever again.
It's real now, isn't it?
Nice, warm, accessible, and real; your need.
Show me.
But remember this; at its peak the Moon was mine.
I want to kiss you, you know that right ? I do ; somewhere between your reality and my fiction but mostly just in your reality.
Somewhere in my fiction you are already kissing me hungrily, but when did I allow you to do that ? I know you have been wanting to kiss me for some time now, you have been thinking about it a lot and even writing about it. Though you are not even a Writer. But it's different when you want to, when you are the one yearning it is a different thing, right? Then what I want goes out the window, and my consent doesn't matter.
Oddly enough, I've been missing you, wanting to be inside you. I really miss wanting to do things to you. For you make me feel good about the things I do to you.
It's like I'm on a verge of losing, myself or even your colors.
So.
Put me in your mouth.
Swallow me please.
And then swallow me whole.
Shh, stay keeping sitting, keep me pinned, don't move, the inside of my wrists under the soles of your feet; my soul under yours and your softness on me.
Your whole weight, you astride, is making me real, keep going.
I am truly sorry but I'll never doubt your pinkness ever again.
It's real now, isn't it?
Nice, warm, accessible, and real; your need.
Show me.
But remember this; at its peak the Moon was mine.
Banksy
Hey, busy bee buzz a little while longer, it won't kill your buzz if you buzz a little bit closer. I don't miss you but I still want to kiss you more.
I do not like you at all, but I want you to open your mouth pressed up against mine.
Breathe. Ice. Icy breath. Take it in. Exhale.
On your knees now, get down. You are a monster, you are right but let me finish. I am November. This is not our December, that may never come, but we can wait for it to come again.
Don't walk down any aisles just yet, unless it's an Oreo aisle!
I do not like you at all, but I want you to open your mouth pressed up against mine.
Breathe. Ice. Icy breath. Take it in. Exhale.
On your knees now, get down. You are a monster, you are right but let me finish. I am November. This is not our December, that may never come, but we can wait for it to come again.
Don't walk down any aisles just yet, unless it's an Oreo aisle!
Anja Ringgren Lovén
Stowed away in a corner of the night, marooned next to a window that looked onto the indifferent city, lingering on the fringes of her imaginations ensconced within the shadows of past, she sat in the brittle armchair that was the very last of her thrones.
Dire need to escape made her look out the window, but what was she to look, what was there to see, so she sat looking at the partial view allowed by the moon. The windowpanes made up of drear blades of memory barred the cult of city's personality from coming into their newly forged lies.
But something familiar crept in without hesitation anyway. Something other than the white noise of the city came inside. It tumbled in, falling on its all fours. Then straightening up it fell on her.
she shivered; the gnarled moonlight felt cold on her skin. She tightened her arms around her unasked for burden, her bundle of alleged joy, closing the already enclosed loop, sealing his fate.
She looked down at her fallow thought in her arms fashioned from something else inside of her. The infant seemed placated, for now. That made her angry, but she consoled herself by watching him sleep as he was wont to watch her in her final repose.
Amidst the murmur of his breath was the slight rise and fall of his small frame. Small warm body welling and deflating within her arms, it was the rise and fall of men.
The afterthought of her piety pressed up against her chest like a fawn flooded her with bleak sentimentality, filling her up with what she suspected was the barren love, of the suspicious kind.
She shook off the comforting feeling. Her hair cascading down her shoulders pooled around her feet. Though they offered little protection from herself, all the elements hers to play with, but served as a harness to keep her grounded on her own plane.
She pressed her face to his head, his sparse fuzz of golden hair smelled of decay and corruption yet to come. Her baby in the cradle of her willowy arms shuddered against her body almost protesting against the death of his nation.
She watched him suck in the air left stale by humanity.
Heavens felt on her side for once. She was content, though begrudgingly. But who could blame her for that?
For a moment she considered letting it all be. But no, they had made their move. Now it was her turn.
Her son would be the only man rising up from the piles of their bones.
She changed positions in the armchair, but not her mind, stroking his tiny head. she nestled to her breast what her own two hands had sent forth. She hugged the finality of her troll.
She looked down at him.
You breathe. I exist.
Dire need to escape made her look out the window, but what was she to look, what was there to see, so she sat looking at the partial view allowed by the moon. The windowpanes made up of drear blades of memory barred the cult of city's personality from coming into their newly forged lies.
But something familiar crept in without hesitation anyway. Something other than the white noise of the city came inside. It tumbled in, falling on its all fours. Then straightening up it fell on her.
she shivered; the gnarled moonlight felt cold on her skin. She tightened her arms around her unasked for burden, her bundle of alleged joy, closing the already enclosed loop, sealing his fate.
She looked down at her fallow thought in her arms fashioned from something else inside of her. The infant seemed placated, for now. That made her angry, but she consoled herself by watching him sleep as he was wont to watch her in her final repose.
Amidst the murmur of his breath was the slight rise and fall of his small frame. Small warm body welling and deflating within her arms, it was the rise and fall of men.
The afterthought of her piety pressed up against her chest like a fawn flooded her with bleak sentimentality, filling her up with what she suspected was the barren love, of the suspicious kind.
She shook off the comforting feeling. Her hair cascading down her shoulders pooled around her feet. Though they offered little protection from herself, all the elements hers to play with, but served as a harness to keep her grounded on her own plane.
She pressed her face to his head, his sparse fuzz of golden hair smelled of decay and corruption yet to come. Her baby in the cradle of her willowy arms shuddered against her body almost protesting against the death of his nation.
She watched him suck in the air left stale by humanity.
Heavens felt on her side for once. She was content, though begrudgingly. But who could blame her for that?
For a moment she considered letting it all be. But no, they had made their move. Now it was her turn.
Her son would be the only man rising up from the piles of their bones.
She changed positions in the armchair, but not her mind, stroking his tiny head. she nestled to her breast what her own two hands had sent forth. She hugged the finality of her troll.
She looked down at him.
You breathe. I exist.
Red Letter Media
We've been dead for thousands and thousands of years. Dead or sleeping, depends on how you feel about it at any given moment. But that's okay.
The trouble starts when you are born, then everything becomes taxing and temporary. When they pulled us into an awareness, they killed us.
Then we get saddled with a seven minute relay, at best. A soft limbo that's only palliative and comforting in theory. A momentary respite that's a cosmic joke of course and still resented by the divine.
A petty haggling of which we weren't even a part of.
When forced into an existence, we turned into the ward of all that breathes, subjected to the known universe, and though always partial to the unknown, which wasn't really found and never understood, is lost to us.
The trouble starts when you are born, then everything becomes taxing and temporary. When they pulled us into an awareness, they killed us.
Then we get saddled with a seven minute relay, at best. A soft limbo that's only palliative and comforting in theory. A momentary respite that's a cosmic joke of course and still resented by the divine.
A petty haggling of which we weren't even a part of.
When forced into an existence, we turned into the ward of all that breathes, subjected to the known universe, and though always partial to the unknown, which wasn't really found and never understood, is lost to us.
Adrian Borda
In a maze people can get lost, there are pitfalls. But put two people in a room, they ll find each other and make it work.
People find excuses not to love. But secluded in a room, they must find each other. What other choice do they have?
What can they do ?
People find excuses not to love. But secluded in a room, they must find each other. What other choice do they have?
What can they do ?
hailey wait piigss
Dead are the truly blessed ones, only them. How lucky they are, everything remains the same for them. They are still in a way in which they cannot change, alter, or become. They can't change but they can cause change, impel it even. Where they are time cannot molest them, hope cannot dupe them, nor do they suffer from nostalgia, and best of all the memories of them and their own memories are not belied by an age of anything. While the rest of us galoots are moiling for a dandelion of a reason, running after the colors of a mermaid's breath, seeking meaning in mummer's farce, finding pearls mother of pearl even. In fetters of hope, struggling against it even then, unnecessarily chasing something, chasing anything and nothing, trying to catch one thing but getting caught by another.
mahafsoun
And Paris ? Yes, you shall have that too. Because it's just a city and you are a lot more than that. You won't be some girl lost in an ancient city, but the city of Paris will be lost in the ancient thing that is your heart.
Aperitivo
her fulgurant smile flared in a cruelty of fleeting clarity
right before she died
heat of it popping and crackling in his face like her spastic reasons
like the shimmer of her blood on his person
blinding him
tiny flecks of fluorescence dying out right before her
somewhere betwixt her death, moments into her denials, like the unfamiliarity of her warmth he knew what she was
in the middle of her resurrection he forgot who she truly was
an easy beneficial amnesia
unlike a Nix who wouldn't drown
her advent of fresh life meant nothing now
all that mattered was the virility of her lies
and the hangover of delusions of her godlike grandeur
which she mistook for her atonement
which he had mistaken for the relentless stirring of his unblemished dead wings
knolls of her stupidity were boundless
tedious and sodden to trudge through at worsts of times
which in actuality were best of times
a stone bridge between their granular nowheres.
right before she died
heat of it popping and crackling in his face like her spastic reasons
like the shimmer of her blood on his person
blinding him
tiny flecks of fluorescence dying out right before her
somewhere betwixt her death, moments into her denials, like the unfamiliarity of her warmth he knew what she was
in the middle of her resurrection he forgot who she truly was
an easy beneficial amnesia
unlike a Nix who wouldn't drown
her advent of fresh life meant nothing now
all that mattered was the virility of her lies
and the hangover of delusions of her godlike grandeur
which she mistook for her atonement
which he had mistaken for the relentless stirring of his unblemished dead wings
knolls of her stupidity were boundless
tedious and sodden to trudge through at worsts of times
which in actuality were best of times
a stone bridge between their granular nowheres.
Ilya Repin
Betwixt between the sun and the sea, and licked by the salt of memory. Like an earworm ringing in her head, something other than her mirror was beckoning her into the green of the water. But the warm waves were saddened by something other than her, so she stood immobile with the frothy ocean lapping at her feet. Turned slightly sideways, she stood still like words yet to be written down and soon to be forgotten.
iamamiwhoami
Reeshæ : my captors will dream of me. Just as I dreamt of my paper walls and glass skies.
Kinna : your captors ? Or your creations? Those sweet nightless creatures.
Reeshæ : Same difference, just another loop of the same single skein of thought. What is real anyways?
Kinna : This is real.
Then Kinna kissed her.
Reeshæ : No, it's not.
Kinna: What is this?
Reeshæ : nothing, just a mossdream.
Kinna : your captors ? Or your creations? Those sweet nightless creatures.
Reeshæ : Same difference, just another loop of the same single skein of thought. What is real anyways?
Kinna : This is real.
Then Kinna kissed her.
Reeshæ : No, it's not.
Kinna: What is this?
Reeshæ : nothing, just a mossdream.
