I really don't know why I'm doing this.

Maybe this will change soon. But for now, here's the pretend jungle.
I want to keep the background AND make the sidebar readable and I'm not sure at all about how to do it. Imagine me with my head on fire arms flailing trying to swim in an ocean of dragon pus. THAT'S how it makes me feel.


EDIT:  WOOHOOOOO I'VE DONE IT well its better than how it was last so, hello, welcome, I hope you're comfortable. I'm going to make this a very happy place. I'm going to make it bracelets out of stolen beads and stainless steel nuts. Its going to be fun, I promise. I will even pour you some banana milkshake at  regular intervals if you stay, tempting HUH HUH 

Fuck! Get em bottles out and SMASH THEM ON MY HEAD!

CAUSE I WANNA FEEL FANCY AT THE BEGINNING OF 20 WITH

ELABORATE LURES, PRETEND 80s HAIRDOS,

WITH A THIRD EYE AND CHOKING,WITH 

MORE NOSTRILS MORE FLEGM MORE TEETH AND SYMMETRY

OR JUST BETTER OFF.

AUR PIMPAL BHI YAAR. 

And she's real tired hey

She thought of her life - part of the sitcom

when the master returns with a newspaper home

And what's thrown at the feline is dropped just in time

To snap all their strings while they're trying to rhyme.

About the Younger Man / Conjugal extinction

Dear Mister Processed Nectar,


Our love was a ritual, like a head placing itself
inside an oven each day. One day, I passed. Another day and
more often, you did.

My forests are now one wild village and they speak the same

language; there's more wind between the trees, and rivers

when we arrive.

For his love is but a perfect cigarette burn; he's taught me to blow
rings and go around them too.

What one must read

Leftover rain slinking down the potholes of a repressed subconscious, inhale this city as a new book this morning. A wind-washed fiction, every square inch of concrete a spot on the page. You start to appreciate modern art, strange colours, stubborn lines and stubborn scars from something poetic. That's a start, you think, and your shoes fit perfectly this time.

Exactly when you must stop thinking.Lesson number 9 in 

How to Keep Your Marbles and More.

Full Title:What one must read when one wants to write How to Sell Your Book.

Alternate title:WHAT ONE MUST NOT READ IS one's  day.

-

I'M TALKING TOO MUCH AND ABOUT TOO MANY THINGS I THINK ITS JUST ABOUT TOO MUCH YEAH.

Look who came to uproot.

It is as though I've taken up gardening full time. My art gone
out the window, it makes fine manure, works slow but
I give it a go. I sit for days under the window, shooting up
at every wink of the sun. The winds gossip and I join hands with
the hosepipe. Twice a day I dig up bones and appendices, twice a
day new ones must appear, dripping or stale,two days dead. I
miss the culinary activities, I miss my cat during his favourite part of
listlessness.I'm hunting but its still just bones, no organs showing up, no
marrow to build a beat.It is as though next, ill have them growing
out of the sound-hole, use the neck as a plough, fingers firm over
flying strings.We're making music, I tell you, but we still need
the red. You snap the fingers and nothing flows.You're still snapping
fingers, the sound of it calming you more than the birds ever helped,
and what else would we want the trees for anyway. Lets go to bed,
I say, and you're snapping fingers, too tired to dig the dead ones out.

Heavyweight

What other kind of sleep-walking do I need to practise, what embellishments do I add to my madness? Which is most appropriate to rub against the other, for my pride is eroding just a little slower each time. Punctuate and crosscheck. Wrap some more rags around the ticker, crosscheck, wash its feet and give it up, give up, put letting go on repeat and you can live without a care in the world.Several excuses have been used, but I'll give you the one that sells, diamond rimmed, pure platinum body, the whitest of baked lies.If only it spun a little smoother, two decades have been passed in these hitches,what are we even saying anymore, its been too long,we've come to far in to create or conquer sense now

this is exactly what i was afraid of.i knew that the moment i realise that my acquaintances from this city read this space too, i would somehow start refraining from posting. still not sure how or why, because its not as if its a personal choice, i just see patterns i wish weren't so marked in my behaviour, its very not cool.speculating on why it might have been, well, maybe because anything i churn out is so unbelievably weird ive got to be trying my BEST to be different, right, and oh long sentences of course and when would you find anything of substance anyway, why then such embellishments.

why anything when merging into,wait what do i call it, Blah, is so convenient, fun, and it works out for everybody so hurrah i guess.

(oh did i miss out how what im calling weird is actually so Boring you want to jump out of your skin and into an ocean or even a gutter would do, and oh when will i get what is really going on lulz)

the day before, a creepy grey eyed middle aged man stopped me in the middle of the road while i was walking back with a collapsing lung or something that felt like it was killing me, and said that he was stalking me and wanted to friend me. who else wants to friend me?

People say

look at it from this point of view. Your points of view.Ok, let us
begin.If I look at it from the 67 degrees north point of view, a range is missing, whatever happens to the Himalayas when we move to the Atlantic? From right there across the street, a firefly is missing.From yours, I lost my 3rd Grade story. And from yours, I lost my FB password. Tragedy is flowing from all points, we are all points under the same water but at varied depths. We're a part of a balloon. Everyone in this balloon has different points of view. My point of view looks at this as a balloon. From my point of view, I see something dying. In all our points of view combined, what is happening again? Where is the heavily dressed woman in her forties, where is that pet animal she stole. And then they flocked her; she played hide and seek on repeat and it was blue evenings, red meat, a fat thump when she moved. Every moment is that moment of what is happening. It is a good what is happening but

gravity is tugging harder as I say this.  People say, look at it from my
point of view. Like it's the same thing, you and I have the same
bloodgroup, the same jawline, or the same fear of water on
our feet.Look at it from my point of view, then. Look at it, pulling
at my feet, tentacles of a sea monster and I, the only point it could
grab from down there.

Bluebird.

Once upon a time I had good, long hair. And then it reduced to 'once upon a time'.If you look at my face now, you would be looking at the face of the dying. This one time, I had a vision where I was a madman looking for a jutting piece of rock muttering 'am I really that lonely yet?' Rainclouds formed, my hands were covered in glue-skin that was safe to peel. I tried saying, 'Hello, I have a new haircut, and man do I look like a boy, would you let me sit, I think I can leave when I must, oh yes? I must hear you sing then!' I tried saying more but it only came out of my mouth to form a puddle at my feet, inviting me to drown in it. The rainclouds, the puddle, and then the fucking birds. What do you do then, where will you run, they can fly you know. You want to punctuate each sentence with panic, but how do you even do that? How do you grab your towel and how do you reach for the door? Your limbs are lighter already, the updraft under your extended glue-skin has taken you and you're with them now, not one of them, just lighter bones and still an eye out for a jutting piece of rock with a spot of sun.

i could be music, but

Mainstream killed me

   

evidently, i got high and felt like a cheesy pop song today.

what is that

 

Are you happy with your frigid zone.

Today i saw Osama's picture and i tell you i hate clean shaven men.

Are you happy with seventy two horses.

are they happy in their bunny suits.

Are these really apples. 

tomorrow, lets visit a clinic and buy that shit man.

Some of the days I dont get any dreams and then I try to fill up my sleep with commercials where there's men waking up with grey hair and no pension plans

I resolve to never tell you when I'm not ok

I want to get an ocean around my eyes, lets drink.

We forget to punctuate sometimes.

-


so whatsup. so my boils are deflating.i want to write flash fiction but i cant.

Yellow, and other facts about Ether's Backpack.

Yellow is the most important, the most pervading, almost like the Blue when you look at Planet Earth from Jupiter, only more thorough at it.Sometimes I wonder what if the Blue were Yellow, and the Earth looked icteric? It would then be easier to imagine the planet as a smiley.There's a purple smiley fixed to the outermost pocket of the backpack,sitting there like a pink bow on a Poodle.They say the hair can twist into cords and continue to grow if the Poodle coat isn't brushed constantly.In order to brush it constantly, the bow ought to be removed from time to time, but Ether never removes the smiley, and that brings to mind an image of an unseemly, tangled, coarsely coated Poodle you don't want to be toting around with your books and make up and food and drumsticks in.Ether doesn't have drumsticks, nor chopsticks, nor dandiya sticks, and the last time she ate cheese sticks, they reminded her of dogfood, even though she's never even smelt any variety of those, ever.Pictures of all her favourite foods give Ether's backpack a much stronger base than yours.Sometimes during her meals when she cant remember how the food looked before she swallowed 3/4th of it in a go, she likes to want to reach into her bag for a reference picture, and then complain about fatigue,following which she'd segue into a little rant about Thinspiration, but all she actually does is finish the food, take the damn backpack and carelessly thud past any other backpacks in sight.The backpack has seen more cities than Ether has, but it tells no stories and cracks no jokes, and you can bet it's never taken any pictures either, so you can never tell how.Ether doesn't know this, but if she did, she wouldn't be sad. Ether's backpack is misunderstood by most people, but i must tell you that it's only trying to spread yellow cheer, much like an epidemic.Ether doesn't know this, but if she did, she wouldn't care.

Want of the day.

I want

To be a streetlight.

Or a kiss under a streetlight.

Banal update in verse.

tonight is just a dull fullmoon
i hated this day's afternoon
all i have done this dismal day
is watch this psychotic cartoon.

around midday i realised
my tummy's grown a bit in size
but it also seemed a little blue
and made me let out painful cries.

i then grew calmer by twilight
'cause i liked it when cinnamon died
and when my mom said 'TELLS A TAIL!'
i felt heaven and earth collide.

dinner was such a sad affair
it made me pull out half my hair
so strode off i, without a word
without a bite, without a care.

and if you swear you'll clap this time
and you agree to wind my chime
i'll promise, and try sticking to
the promise to not ever rhyme.

dirty old wallet oozing spleen

so i do this when im depressed. it looks a little cleaner than in the picture,everything is a little more crisp after final touches.

I'm going to tell you one thing I know for certain about myself- allergic or not, I will always hate vodka. Today is very hot like every other day now but today I had to walk to college and stay there for 2 goddamned hours just to get very worked up about every other person's attitude towards the upcoming jury AND one permission letter. Too hot for people so I asked them to not meet me, this one time that I had any at all. Ho Ho. What is with me and the persistent non existence of my social life. Its too hot even for question marks and right punctuation,and I really dont need your answers.So then I came back to my room, danced to Belly Dancer and imagined to have no self respect at all so I can make myself type this out. Right now I cannot make myself carry on with life with the same conviction as always (conviction you will never find reflected in my attitude, no, its all in my head, its the secret life of Malter Witty) because I cant have my poison, nobody is willing to go score. What does it mean to have a resolution and stick to it man, I will never know.

Besides that, this is good. Tomorrow im going to visit an orphanage, as if the disabled home I keep visiting wasnt fucking with my brain enough. I'm hoping it gets done with without me feeling a strange obligation to go back there, I hope that place is a corporate bitchhole, I hope I come back with something to crib about, ready with words and jabs at whatever i see and not wrapped in thick layers of silence. What i really want to do is be a bitch, go clubbing and break an ankle. But no the whole point of this rant is, vodka sucks, baba chai.