Asghar Abbas's Blog - Posts Tagged "oct"
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.
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.
Maja Sokolowska
He burned so many bridges with her
that when he was finally done, his remaining world took on a subtle hue of gray.
All the bridges in the new world and the old one- gone. No smolder nor any flicker of flame, not even wisps of any rumor remained.
No more pall of sadness to entertain. There weren’t any forest fires this time around. She had exiled all the forests and annexed all the fires, consuming all that burned around her, preserving everything within her.
In the maudlin kaleidoscope of dust, grime, blood and smoke, he burned all the bridges- or the bridges burned him- that distinction was still up in the air, whilst he hesitated down in the trenches.
Afterward;
when there was time for afterward
when the afterlife didn’t seem like such a bad idea
everything became wet ash.
The very sillage in the air was of burnt whorl from her dreams, the air resounding with the rosemary of her surrender.
Everything tasted of her ashen imagery, everything tasted permanent, tasting like forever.
The other remaining Muses, the one he didn’t drain, brought him up to the hill. Their hair billowing behind them as they coaxed him into the shade of her tree, all in the name of commiserating.
But before he could rebuild, they left him a placated mess, making him feel discontent with the residue of soot he had come to cherish, ditching him they left him grappling with the traces of what he lost and plethora of what he gained from the death of her mind.
Just when he was on the verge of an understanding, when the meaning was within his grasp, they left him on his own, with not even an unkindness of ravens to keep him company.
Her dry memories were the dye on his hands that wouldn’t come off, what images he could salvage, her pink images were swollen with stale poetry.
What the Ferryman demanded was too high a toll to pay, what he was supposed to leave behind in his stead was too high a price, his pockets couldn’t bear the strain of this passage, unnecessarily the river was too deep for him to cross.
On the grassy knoll, he found himself again in the umbrage of her leafy tree, abandoning his wordlings one by one. Like he was lobbing the gold coins he didn't have into her fountain, but he wasn't tossing the nameless coins in her pound, he was casting out pieces of himself that he couldn't spare.
Tucked away in her cold shadows he shivered with unknown warmth.
Standing alone under her tree, he was left with nothing but eight pieces of Tunglið in his hand.
But that wasn’t enough to bring her back.
that when he was finally done, his remaining world took on a subtle hue of gray.
All the bridges in the new world and the old one- gone. No smolder nor any flicker of flame, not even wisps of any rumor remained.
No more pall of sadness to entertain. There weren’t any forest fires this time around. She had exiled all the forests and annexed all the fires, consuming all that burned around her, preserving everything within her.
In the maudlin kaleidoscope of dust, grime, blood and smoke, he burned all the bridges- or the bridges burned him- that distinction was still up in the air, whilst he hesitated down in the trenches.
Afterward;
when there was time for afterward
when the afterlife didn’t seem like such a bad idea
everything became wet ash.
The very sillage in the air was of burnt whorl from her dreams, the air resounding with the rosemary of her surrender.
Everything tasted of her ashen imagery, everything tasted permanent, tasting like forever.
The other remaining Muses, the one he didn’t drain, brought him up to the hill. Their hair billowing behind them as they coaxed him into the shade of her tree, all in the name of commiserating.
But before he could rebuild, they left him a placated mess, making him feel discontent with the residue of soot he had come to cherish, ditching him they left him grappling with the traces of what he lost and plethora of what he gained from the death of her mind.
Just when he was on the verge of an understanding, when the meaning was within his grasp, they left him on his own, with not even an unkindness of ravens to keep him company.
Her dry memories were the dye on his hands that wouldn’t come off, what images he could salvage, her pink images were swollen with stale poetry.
What the Ferryman demanded was too high a toll to pay, what he was supposed to leave behind in his stead was too high a price, his pockets couldn’t bear the strain of this passage, unnecessarily the river was too deep for him to cross.
On the grassy knoll, he found himself again in the umbrage of her leafy tree, abandoning his wordlings one by one. Like he was lobbing the gold coins he didn't have into her fountain, but he wasn't tossing the nameless coins in her pound, he was casting out pieces of himself that he couldn't spare.
Tucked away in her cold shadows he shivered with unknown warmth.
Standing alone under her tree, he was left with nothing but eight pieces of Tunglið in his hand.
But that wasn’t enough to bring her back.
Laura Makabresku
You break my unmended heart so beautifully
My songs my dirgesongs die unsung like the kisses we will never share
tragedy isn’t that I sang
on those rocks
Or that you were drowning for me
Or that I sang for you
delicious is the bite of that fate; you took the songs I sang for me
A year has passed since we unlooked at each other
A year has passed
Or a thousand
Or a thousand suns have died
where you go to why can’t I go with you
where you hide why can’t I hide with you
where I am now why can’t you save me ?
why you abandoned me like a painting waiting to be perfect
But when you touch my cold shadows
Wrap me in your brittle embrace
In your false valor
We are that pyre that pyre made for others
flames lick us in the fire set by others
We shook from the ashes rising like the demented phoenix of our own unbecoming
We unfuck the knots tied by Others
We rise
We soar
We lose ourselves in each other
In that loss we are free
In each other is our own choice
We fly
We unify
We drink stale essence from our stream
relishing our fears
And in the river of fallow blood
We create
We create
We create
We create the illusion of our own malleable bliss.
My songs my dirgesongs die unsung like the kisses we will never share
tragedy isn’t that I sang
on those rocks
Or that you were drowning for me
Or that I sang for you
delicious is the bite of that fate; you took the songs I sang for me
A year has passed since we unlooked at each other
A year has passed
Or a thousand
Or a thousand suns have died
where you go to why can’t I go with you
where you hide why can’t I hide with you
where I am now why can’t you save me ?
why you abandoned me like a painting waiting to be perfect
But when you touch my cold shadows
Wrap me in your brittle embrace
In your false valor
We are that pyre that pyre made for others
flames lick us in the fire set by others
We shook from the ashes rising like the demented phoenix of our own unbecoming
We unfuck the knots tied by Others
We rise
We soar
We lose ourselves in each other
In that loss we are free
In each other is our own choice
We fly
We unify
We drink stale essence from our stream
relishing our fears
And in the river of fallow blood
We create
We create
We create
We create the illusion of our own malleable bliss.
Maham.
It's sublime, to be sure, sometimes it's subliminal, sometimes it is a blessing, sometimes it can be a blessing. But right now, it's too much, too many inches too much in too many inches to be this much in. Rain. Ghost in a rain, ghosts in the rain. Surely overwrought, it has wrought much, it has wrought enough with the iron, for the iron, by the iron, earthen, of iron. It's enough now. It's wroth right now. It's a wraith in the woods; vengeful and full of wrath, wrathful on the road to vengeance. Falling in love with books. This rain is a slattern now. That's more than enough. The runestones you gave me, try as I might but rubbing them together is no longer fun. Runestones that you had given me, I am rubbing them together as much as I can but they are no longer exciting me. So how can I stay excited? Your paintings do not glisten for you, it's a shame, they no longer heal me, but embrace that shame. There are other ways of poisoning a painting, there are other ways to poison the paintings. The moon is not looking on. Your painting of the wolf is not blue anymore, but it is still hungry and the moon is swollen. This dream is too wet and the nightmares are dry. All of them. I woke up from my dry nightmares, today, feeding on the nightmares from my fodder. People are people, people are still people and you can't escape from them. Just like this rain. Make them disappear inside you, but don't make more of them. Make them vanish, make them vanish in the rain. Rain upon rain. It's eternal. This Rain is Eternal. It's not about anger, it's about disappearing. It's about the quiet. It's all quiet inside the womb. It's all soft inside. Quietly, I am falling in love with books. I am not angry now. I have my rain, my bullet, my ground, I have my tea, my words, and my music. Not my sea. I am not angry now. Words sans muses is the best thing. After all, the actual writing is done somewhere between making tea and not writing. So. I am disappearing but without anger. For. This a war I must paint.
