ASIMA IS SICK AND SHE WANTS TO EAT YOUR TEDDYBEAR AND THEN PUKE ALL OVER YOUR PERFECT BODYPARTS

ASIMA IS SICK! FOR DETAILS, READ ON. FOR ICE CREAMS, GO ROB A BANK.FOR PICTURE OF THE BIGMONSTER EATING OTHER MONSTER, VISIT LINK BY CLICKING ON CLICKING. ANY OF THE SEVERAL CLICKINGs. FOR LIFE SAVING ADVICE, READ TITLE AND RACK YOUR BRAINS OR HIRE ONE AND THEN RACK IT AND THEN DISPOSE IT OFF AND THEN DRAW A PICTURE OF A FLOWER AND EAT IT.


sometimes what happens to asima is, she gets reminded of perfectly shaped body parts. no asymmetry. no abnormality. the kinda stuff that'd make you go 'HEY, THAT'S A NORMAL HUMAN BEING'S BODY PARTS!' unlike her own. then she gets sorta sick.her eyes turn upwards, her lips thicken and her face bulges on one side.when she gets sick, asima likes to pull paper bags or polythene bags over her head. she likes to think that doing so will suffocate all those thoughts and they'd die and never return to plague her.if in case you catch her in the act, she will immediately hide her hands behind her back so in case you are about to draw a picture of her and put it up one some electronic medium like this one, you cannot reproduce her hands for the life of you. this will make you suspect that she hates her hands but there's no way in hell you can confirm if that's true.so you move on and continue with the rest of the story.



so she gets a little sick and then she gets sicker. this time she was thinking about pretty eyes. so she got sick and then she got sicker. when she gets sicker she feels like she could do with some drowning and then she starts having the drowning feeling and everything around goes yellow and gooey looking.

then she starts feeling like its raining on the inside of her hair. then she starts cursing you and your scanner and your fucking fingers and all that works because your scanner starts malfunctioning and your fingers start feeling like they would really like to wrap themselves around your neck in a way that will strangle you to death. this makes it very difficult for you to type so you have to stop

these things happen and they make me poetic.

im peeling the soles off my feet
but everything is still strange and absent and
imaginary when im walking all over it. these
things happen.my fingers are all blood and
loose cuticles.im telling you, these things
happen and they're are always watching you through
a peephole with the kind of eyeballs
that turn into a doorknob and lock you in before
you know it.this is irrelevant and it
makes me poetic.

*

this morning i was in
the toilet, singing and imagining that im
at a party with all your friends watching me.
none of them was taking pictures of me. no one
told me i remind them of someone famous.i was ugly
with tufts of hair missing and no one was getting me a
drink and they were staring as though im a tortured
polar bear and they're copious amounts
of greenhouse gases. these things happen and

*

they make me a little crazy, a little edgy and suicidal but
all of it it also makes me majorly poetic.like i start seeing
stars appear all over my body and the walls and the bedsheet and i
start trying to lick them off and i dont know what
the hell is going on so i decide to write about it.
but i cant, and it makes me feel like my heart
needs to piss. like i'm walking into a
new city with no wind, no sun, no plants and
nothing to grow into.

*

when you were talking about
edges and love and perfectness and love and flames
and love, i thanked you because you wouldnt have
me talking about it too. you dont care. im a huge big black
box of garbage and eagles swoop down to snip the last of
my words. this makes you happy and you leave.these

*

things happen and then we start
writing about how the world must be a peephole
into something huger,more sinister, with
more of a menstrual sense of humor.about how
large amounts of illegal drugs and some
amount of real death would really help. about how
being alone actually makes us stretch our limbs as far as
they'd go, and not just curl up and die. about how
nothing can be salvaged once we start doing this- we
start touching everything as though we're some dusty old
memory,the athlete's foot, or a shard of broken glass.

you say everything as though you mean it to break something

You do everything as though you are
helping a dying woman through childbirth.You say-
'If you're not the woman, you'll be the child'. You are doing this
to make the child survive a world of raptors on its own, crying,
wiping its face on its ass.'You cannot escape this',you
say. I swear, I dig my nails into you and yell
when I'm really just wishing I could sob and say 'I'm sorry, I'm
sorry, lets be ok.' You do everything as
though


you're doing everyone a favour, everyone
but you. You tell me that if my dead friend's book
gets to my bedroom, I'm going to be possessed by suicide
spirits. I burn the book and feed you the
ashes. You take your forgiving hands
out of the oven and do everything you can to
save the child.You say 'This is your next life, damn you, damn
you', bleed a little, and collapse with your God
stories lying next to you.


You know how it's all played out, you're writing
the script and you're chopping off all branches to punish the
roots. The fruits fall, the flowers fall, the
buds make no sound but weep. You look at me and
say 'You won't escape this, damn you,' trying to sound like a witch,
but failing. You try your exorcisms on yourself and
then on me but we've been exhausted. You take your
forgiving hands, pick me up and tell me that


nobody will love me because
I'm ugly with disfigured breasts that resemble the
withering humanity hanging out loosely from
something facing extinction. I try to kill you but my nails
come off. You take your bruises and compile
them into a catalogue of revolvers as though it could be
your prophesy or your handbook on


survival strategies for me. You call me a whore and
scream curses into the commode. You tell the dying
woman that the child is coming through. The steam doesn't
help her breathe. You talk about your failing
marriage your dying bones your psychopathic
tendencies your life and its lack of oases and the
saddest way to combat collapsing roofs. I say 'you can't escape
this, DAMN YOU!' and weep silently, wondering
if you'll ever notice their missing heartbeats
sticking to your bloody hands.


--
(image from google, manipulated by me)

OM

now yesterday, i got drunk i felt like a yogini i texted half the people i know with the name of the whiskey i'd just had and the namah shivaya chant and i drew this and then i fell asleep feeling like i know all there is to know about the origin of everything and the self and masturbation and isolation and NOTHING'S GONNA CHANGE MY WORLLLLD.

i think. i want to run away to the himalayas.

OH THIS IS THE SCRAP VERSION:
TELL ME WHICH ONE YOU HATE MORE *!*

and repeat repeat repeat:

people still wanting to buy my prints, email me at shriparnasarkar@yahoo.com

(dont let the watermarks scare you)

Big Black Ilaichi.

cardamom!cardamom! youmake my chlormintless-day
cardamom!cardamom! you take badtasteofmilk right away
cardamom!cardamom! i can get so very lame
cardamom!cardamom! you are soo the one to blame.

but
cardamom!cardamom! this one thing is sotrue
that
cardamom!cardamom! i deeeeeeeeeeeeegg youuuuuuuu.
(end song)


-
sudden realisation. i can no more pretend to be hovering anywhere close to the borders of profoundity. at no point did i ever make an effort at the pretence, yknow.i think it came naturally, and now it dont. it just dont, man. im just a plain old bastard with issues and a vehement i-wont-speculate attitude.damn, it gets me knee deep into shit sometimes. emotionally,i guess. or maybe im making all this up because i feel a need to ramble senselessly there's nothing else i can ramble freely about.

also, i make a statement man, i really do.
i let go, i let go like its the most poetic thing in the world and i do it in style.
but always such a goddamned phoney morantic, always.
no dice for the style, though. it just leaves my self esteem at a slightly less-microscopic level, which is OK.

oh and people (HAHAFUCKINGHA) still wanting to buy my prints, email me at shriparnasarkar@yahoo.com

(Y)