Asghar Abbas's Blog - Posts Tagged "moon"
Summer Moon .
Can you feel the Moon tonight? The full weight of it? Do you see it? He sure sees you. He knows you. That should scare you, but it is he who is frightened. You are only to look up, up up at him, one look that lingers and he disrobes of his everything, all his glowing veneers. For you. He is but renowned for his shyness and for some parts of you.
Silly Girl, who told you to remove your skin? Even if your red cloak is nowhere to be seen. It is after all about fairness and pitching in. You protected him from all the suns and the stars in the skies and he kept you safe from your thoughts. Most of them anyway. You don't like that? Well, neither did he.
The Moon's swollenness, whole of it, can move you but it's sheer girth, unmasked and resplendent, cannot take you back to where you belong. You are not the custodian of your world anymore, you silly little girl. Dead or dying, slowly slowly, quietly quietly you are getting to know him. Aye, you are a thief still, but he still likes your smile and still cherishes the sea of Galilee in your eyes that lights up the religion of your lie.
You came into this world today, yes, those Northern Lights your vessel, the music of it feels right, gently gently you had come here, but the pleasure of him is not your gift. The Moonlust is on you Tonight, you'll writhe and write on the dunes of sands and then on heartless paper, too. Exhausted you shall be, but there will be words, lots and lots of words, loads. You should talk to him more often, and seek him out, even if the world deems you mad for warbling to the Moon. Reveal all of your pinkness to him. As it is, you don't kiss him often enough for him to decide what type of Fiction you are. You should let him kiss you more, though to be sure, your kiss is not yours to give. Yet it isn't his to take either.
Now, say goodbye to the fourteenth of twenty, look the thirteenth is gone now, and welcome the newer Deaths, say hello. Cui Bono. He will see you later and see you more. Undeniably, ultimately, undoubtedly, he'll see more of you.
Silly Girl, who told you to remove your skin? Even if your red cloak is nowhere to be seen. It is after all about fairness and pitching in. You protected him from all the suns and the stars in the skies and he kept you safe from your thoughts. Most of them anyway. You don't like that? Well, neither did he.
The Moon's swollenness, whole of it, can move you but it's sheer girth, unmasked and resplendent, cannot take you back to where you belong. You are not the custodian of your world anymore, you silly little girl. Dead or dying, slowly slowly, quietly quietly you are getting to know him. Aye, you are a thief still, but he still likes your smile and still cherishes the sea of Galilee in your eyes that lights up the religion of your lie.
You came into this world today, yes, those Northern Lights your vessel, the music of it feels right, gently gently you had come here, but the pleasure of him is not your gift. The Moonlust is on you Tonight, you'll writhe and write on the dunes of sands and then on heartless paper, too. Exhausted you shall be, but there will be words, lots and lots of words, loads. You should talk to him more often, and seek him out, even if the world deems you mad for warbling to the Moon. Reveal all of your pinkness to him. As it is, you don't kiss him often enough for him to decide what type of Fiction you are. You should let him kiss you more, though to be sure, your kiss is not yours to give. Yet it isn't his to take either.
Now, say goodbye to the fourteenth of twenty, look the thirteenth is gone now, and welcome the newer Deaths, say hello. Cui Bono. He will see you later and see you more. Undeniably, ultimately, undoubtedly, he'll see more of you.
Andrea Kiss - Artist
A man can love a woman, earthen and real who smelt of today, even yesterday
but she will not love him back
maddened he is raging, he fights with her when she insists on being real. She tells him to-
A girl can love a man,
but it's wrong
because she is wrong.
A boy misuses a girl and she lets him because deep down she is pretending all the thrones are hers
they are not
a girl won't see.
Then there is a woman that heartens the winter. She loves a man and the man not yet estranged from reality loves her back but they are separated by commonness, they suffer she more than him.
He wants Tähteä and they do end up together but in another story.
but she will not love him back
maddened he is raging, he fights with her when she insists on being real. She tells him to-
A girl can love a man,
but it's wrong
because she is wrong.
A boy misuses a girl and she lets him because deep down she is pretending all the thrones are hers
they are not
a girl won't see.
Then there is a woman that heartens the winter. She loves a man and the man not yet estranged from reality loves her back but they are separated by commonness, they suffer she more than him.
He wants Tähteä and they do end up together but in another story.
Julia Trotti Photography
I did dream of you, you know, after all, after all this time. I dreamt I was as kind to you as you were to me, when we were both awake.
Were you in a dream then, or were you a dream? Are you in this dream? Are we dreaming?
We were the ones wandering, why did we sell all our dreams to those vagrants by the river? And in exchange for what? A story we never made.
I know, you dreamed of letting me dream along with you, but I wasn't the one who had put you to sleep. I am not the one who did that.
Here we speak the same language, so we can dance. Just don't turn around. But that's alright, the way back is way too ruined.
And that's alright too, you won't be going back anyhow.
You have already died in this dream.
Were you in a dream then, or were you a dream? Are you in this dream? Are we dreaming?
We were the ones wandering, why did we sell all our dreams to those vagrants by the river? And in exchange for what? A story we never made.
I know, you dreamed of letting me dream along with you, but I wasn't the one who had put you to sleep. I am not the one who did that.
Here we speak the same language, so we can dance. Just don't turn around. But that's alright, the way back is way too ruined.
And that's alright too, you won't be going back anyhow.
You have already died in this dream.
I am out
Get Out.
For the most part, I enjoyed it. Before the ultimate reveal, it was really suspenseful with a permeating dread done just right. After the big reveal, it went downhill. The mystery behind it was plain stupid, but well crafted enough so it was passable. The reason why I liked this and why it was such a kicker, the bad guys weren't your average racists, in fact they were quite the opposite of that, but the misguided folks who insist they are liberal, when in actuality are clueless as to how things really are. But the genius of it, was that very aspect was the true double entendre. Hence why everyone is on board with this.
But for me, while good, this is a case of a movie being way over hyped.
For the most part, I enjoyed it. Before the ultimate reveal, it was really suspenseful with a permeating dread done just right. After the big reveal, it went downhill. The mystery behind it was plain stupid, but well crafted enough so it was passable. The reason why I liked this and why it was such a kicker, the bad guys weren't your average racists, in fact they were quite the opposite of that, but the misguided folks who insist they are liberal, when in actuality are clueless as to how things really are. But the genius of it, was that very aspect was the true double entendre. Hence why everyone is on board with this.
But for me, while good, this is a case of a movie being way over hyped.
Zuhaib Roy Drawing Studio
I have told you a thousand times and in a million different ways. I would know, I counted everything when I was with you and even more so, when I wasn't. You are nothing like Harley Quinn, not even a little bit, not even in any single way. However, you do look a lot like the Joker, especially when you smile in a certain way. Though your lips will always be the color of a dying leaf. You are definitely dead. Your very need for an audience killed you. Not very smart. But you are chubby in all the right places, with the right amount of fatness. Like that flaxen hair girl in the stone tower. You are gonna be so fat in the future that's not for you. How can you not be fat, stuffed with my feelings and words. Stupid blue shirt, but fuck you are beautiful. It's so unfair that you know that, that's really unfortunate. Still, cute butt though .
Shipless
Subterfuge he wasn’t sure about
but he couldn’t see
of that
of monsters and men
he was sure of
He cannot see the colors now
anymore
he has lost them all
Every little thing is dull, hull cracked and leaking filling us up, all the remaining colors are drab now
He can't touch them anymore, this light false and real, he can't swallow it now, what he is rubbing between the index finger and his thumb, it's not colors, what is it, fossils do not lie
It is so chilled now, this dying star, he is, die a little faster now
sun and its numinous reach, ruinous now, each and every finger, freezing
frozen in nothingness, into nothing
Falling on the olden me, that is still not there, straying beside the copacetic copses, this stale sunlight falls on my skin, stirring nothing anew, sunlight falling on me, not stirring the skin
It's so cold now
Apricity is all gone now
Truly
All the sun-dogs are dead
There is fire
There's a fire
But no heat
Son, even the sun, doesn't feel its own warmth
hanging in this abeyance, deliriously, deliciously,
in a moment of her
in this absence
the sun cannot warm himself
the library is closed
all the words
written and forgotten
nothing is forbidden
still nothing there is that I need
The last time I did this
With
Her moribund lips
It was still winter
Winter sun has finally died
But even in all this madness, I know this is March
It's not about dying, but being reborn though not born again, never. We are not perishing, but burning together, we are coming back again.
There is still a way out of this misshapen mesa
I hope
there's hope still
Everything is dead but
For
All dead things are about new beginnings
Dead reminds us of fresher starts
Freshening our mouths in Fresno of our minds
Our collective shame not shaming us
There is still a way out of here
All the way
Outta here
So there is a sliver of a chance here
To toil in the soil
In the dirt
And be free
Of earth and joyless earthen delights
For flowers of the dead
And dead flowers have a presence
And weight
That you can feel even underwater
and under the water, you are home
And like, my stranger, who is familiar and my person, favorite, like my familiar stranger, who is strangely familiar and familiarly strange, of strange beauty, said, trick or treat whilst hiding behind her smile, burrowing inside her borrowed lie.
But
It is just like how the girl with the glass feet told me, it’s not about the sun, or the sun dying in the winter. It's not about death at all. It's about the dearth of words. It's about words. So find some of them, please, animate some of this. Inanimate objects await us. So write. Feel.
So that's where we are in the spectacular of now here in March
But February? That was another story. What was it about? The last month of February was snowy and moony. This February had its Snow Moon. Where it was cold, not cold enough. Under the pewter skies, the moonbeams were cool and balmy, soothing, the moonlight calming me down and down for everything.
Month of February. What was it? I'll tell you.
February was about mermaids
Trying to find them
Keeping them
In the tub
Filleting them
Blinding them
Denying them
Making them up
In their own heads
Resting in wombs, revoke them
February was about burying the hatchet
Into broken skulls
even more so
it was for
Burying the songs
- the dunes cold
In the sands
- the sandworts colder still
While all the remaining lies remain the same.
The thing is, here’s the thing
Here I am for another story
looking for it
I am here for it
A Story.
but he couldn’t see
of that
of monsters and men
he was sure of
He cannot see the colors now
anymore
he has lost them all
Every little thing is dull, hull cracked and leaking filling us up, all the remaining colors are drab now
He can't touch them anymore, this light false and real, he can't swallow it now, what he is rubbing between the index finger and his thumb, it's not colors, what is it, fossils do not lie
It is so chilled now, this dying star, he is, die a little faster now
sun and its numinous reach, ruinous now, each and every finger, freezing
frozen in nothingness, into nothing
Falling on the olden me, that is still not there, straying beside the copacetic copses, this stale sunlight falls on my skin, stirring nothing anew, sunlight falling on me, not stirring the skin
It's so cold now
Apricity is all gone now
Truly
All the sun-dogs are dead
There is fire
There's a fire
But no heat
Son, even the sun, doesn't feel its own warmth
hanging in this abeyance, deliriously, deliciously,
in a moment of her
in this absence
the sun cannot warm himself
the library is closed
all the words
written and forgotten
nothing is forbidden
still nothing there is that I need
The last time I did this
With
Her moribund lips
It was still winter
Winter sun has finally died
But even in all this madness, I know this is March
It's not about dying, but being reborn though not born again, never. We are not perishing, but burning together, we are coming back again.
There is still a way out of this misshapen mesa
I hope
there's hope still
Everything is dead but
For
All dead things are about new beginnings
Dead reminds us of fresher starts
Freshening our mouths in Fresno of our minds
Our collective shame not shaming us
There is still a way out of here
All the way
Outta here
So there is a sliver of a chance here
To toil in the soil
In the dirt
And be free
Of earth and joyless earthen delights
For flowers of the dead
And dead flowers have a presence
And weight
That you can feel even underwater
and under the water, you are home
And like, my stranger, who is familiar and my person, favorite, like my familiar stranger, who is strangely familiar and familiarly strange, of strange beauty, said, trick or treat whilst hiding behind her smile, burrowing inside her borrowed lie.
But
It is just like how the girl with the glass feet told me, it’s not about the sun, or the sun dying in the winter. It's not about death at all. It's about the dearth of words. It's about words. So find some of them, please, animate some of this. Inanimate objects await us. So write. Feel.
So that's where we are in the spectacular of now here in March
But February? That was another story. What was it about? The last month of February was snowy and moony. This February had its Snow Moon. Where it was cold, not cold enough. Under the pewter skies, the moonbeams were cool and balmy, soothing, the moonlight calming me down and down for everything.
Month of February. What was it? I'll tell you.
February was about mermaids
Trying to find them
Keeping them
In the tub
Filleting them
Blinding them
Denying them
Making them up
In their own heads
Resting in wombs, revoke them
February was about burying the hatchet
Into broken skulls
even more so
it was for
Burying the songs
- the dunes cold
In the sands
- the sandworts colder still
While all the remaining lies remain the same.
The thing is, here’s the thing
Here I am for another story
looking for it
I am here for it
A Story.
