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:the capital of capitalism

Above my ego’s head crystals grasp each other ends, holding on what their brother’s hands and descend into the world like a family tree their family tree: a chandelier.


Next to the single page of paper where my pencil draws whatever spirals into my head lives a glass of sauvignon blanc, it tastes oaky when it first kisses your tongue but then it becomes sharp- like a liquid that burns your throat to numb your soul: sharp the way a drinker likes it.


And my eyes leave the ripped page from a strangers notebook and appreciatively scorns its surroundings: more and more chandeliers, and plastic trees, and marble tables holding shrimp cocktails and glasses of expensive wine, and people underneath fur coats and leather jackets,
and windows that allow you to see the capital of capitalism: a population of buildings stapled with dreams and disaster.


The capital of capitalism, the capital of my table, the marble table the sheet of paper I write on now sleeps in; he looks at me with his unforgiving eyes so powerful so strong, so mysterious, so precious, so tragic so manic- one buck: what a lucky kid finds on the corner of the street or the beginning of a manic empire of illusions.


He looks at me and third eyes my ego making me miss him, reminding me that each bite I take and each gulp I drink will make his unbidden scales swim from my pocket into my bill: a cycle of unwanted desires.
He is light, but is able to hold the entirety of this room, of these lives; like a fish, his untouched ends swim through sickness and health: a marriage to the capital of capitalism that overlooks consciousness.
He’s scary holding him makes me feel dependently powerful, but losing him makes me restless: human.


He looks at me and his anatomy punctures my soul, binding it to a maze that has no beginning and one end: everything.

The capital of Capitalism.

You were supposed to be eternal

I’m mad at you. I’m mad at you because you were supposed to be eternal. 

The innocent way you talk to me, the careless way you dream out loud, when you scream thoughts that are meant to be left unsaid, and when your laugh breaks the rational silence awkwardness proposes; these are the reasons why you should be eternal. I am angry at myself because I am not ready to let go. 

You taught me life is sweet, and that time travels following a beating heart- the problem is, yours is beating faster by the day. 

The scars your soul never seem to succumb to and the tears you have never let see; these were supposed to be eternal, you were supposed to be eternal. I am mad at you.

The mark you made is left in the boundless colors that describe your forever-young soul, and the gifts your life left behind will always be with me; your colors run through my blood. 

Still, you were supposed to be eternal; I am mad at myself because, with each day that goes by, you teach me that eternity is nothing more than a glimpse of nostalgia. 

Little fires everywhere

As I lit up my scented candles, thinking I was going to continue working, I became consumed by their smoke, their light, their dance.

I then realized that what consumed me was not the ordinary picturesque setting; rather, I saw my mind’s patterns, my thoughts- how they mingle and operate.

I start to focus on a burning idea, and when I dive into its flames, another small fire starts burning on the other side of my mind; I try to take it down… unfortunately my frantic creativity never allowed me to do a thing as such.

I turn to the glowing fire- just for a split second; I lie to myself; at first, it seemed to be as thin as a burning sheet of paper; silly me, fire is never thin, flames are never innocent, and my ideas are never satiated.

Oh no, now another one starts to sprout!

As I travel to this other fire, the first one grows larger and larger until it loses control: the ideas that once seemed to be little fires everywhere amass into one, beautifully unstoppable blaze.

Their flames hold hands as they try to save reality’s mortal smoke, and I? Well, I just step back and observe, I do whatever they tell me to.

After all, who am I to stop the art that’s birthed by little fires, and burning ideas, everywhere?

Who do we think we are

Who do you think you are? Coming back when you miss the battlefield that is my love just to spit me out again when it becomes too sour for your tongue.

Who do I think I am? Consuming, depending on, every drop you can and can’t give and squeezing you until you have nothing left; it’s never enough.

Who do we think we are trapping each other in a cycle of vices, vulnerabilities, and fears only we know we have- demons we share. We allow our fires to dance with each other, but oftentimes they cause our minds to burn.

Who do we think we are? Thinking excess lasts forever; pretending comfort and dependency is love?

Who do you think you are to walk out of my life?

Who do I think I am to expect myself not to let you in?

Acupuncture

Breathe out, needle in, breathe in, pressure out. A cycle of the liberation of anger and anguish and fear- all condensed in energy balls I did not think existed in my body. 

My face faces the floor; it tries to keep my mind grounded. 

It’s been three months since my mind has wandered through ideas I scorn; they trapped me in a cage, and as a malleable prisoner, I began to accept that tiny, burning box as reality. I blocked my thoughts, feelings that can only be released with a needle’s spike. 

Breathe in, needle out. 

My eyes land on what seems to be nothing more than mighty scribbles a mason accidentally left on the floor.

Suddenly, I see a woman; she sat in the lotus pose; she was calm; I absorbed her. Blink. Same spot, different sight. Now I can see a lion: a metamorphosis which makes absolute sense- then I realized where all my heavy breathing was coming from.

The needles are the keys; they unblock whatever monster I suppress; they turn it into creativity- into the floor’s drawings. They release the soul from the cage it has kept hostage, a life I had forgotten.

Breathe in, needle in. 

I look at the spot where there once was a woman and then a lion. I see nothing. So my eyes dig further into lines of impetuosity. Nothing, nothing, nothing- fuck.

Breathe out, pressure in. 

I open my eyes; the lines on the floor’s bricks never made more sense to me- they tell me stories. 

I look at another spot at even more awkward scribbles. 

And the newly uncaged soul whispers in my ears: “It’s a woman and she’s screaming, spitting fire, she has a tale; a mermaid tale- or is it a lion tale. I don’t know; she’s a woman- it can be both, it can be whatever.”

I search for the energy my breath spits out. Stills, these scribbles get lost in the valleys of dull, old nothingness that sometimes colonize my brain.

Needle in, one more. 

Aha, I finally see it. She spits fire because she can’t tolerate any more absurdity; she can either be a mermaid or a witch or a lion. She’s a woman, and her energies told her to spit out what blocked them in the first place.

She’s ugly, very ugly; why would my eyes even want me to see that. Nonetheless, when we spit out daily nightmares, we all are. 

Needles out, it is over. 

I sit and stare at the cloudy sky. We share the same hasty thoughts- the sun tries to speak to me, she releases some light, but the clouds overshadow most of her.

I get my notebook.

Words out, nonsense in. 

This shall not make sense to you.

Dead fish

My liver is ruined. My stomach; it’s melted by the heat of the gallons of coffee my spiraling mind drowns on.

I don’t know what to feel- so I choose not to feel at all. As the sun shatters my skins, I can my scales drying; lifelessness colonizes each bit of skin I have left.

My lips are hooked in an irregular beat, a cycle that never ends. My mind spirals out of control until it ceases to nothingness.

Still, the dead fish smiles.

Blocked writer

My hands type nothingness into the projection of a failed masterpiece.

The delete button has become my fingers button; their dates have become more and more frequent: one is louder than the other.


My mind is a vacuum; the only thing it does is it scorns the words I read: their children.
The rules are once learned are scarred on the back of my head; they are wounds; they force me to stop.

My head is heavy, heavy with all the shit it wishes to vomit: thoughts and thoughts and thoughts of a scarce nuisance that blend to become one, awkward no.

Perfection fights productivity, which fights punctuation, which fights creativity. The last word in this senseless sentence ruined it.

Still, I can write about not writing at all; is it really a block, or is it just in my mind?

It makes me feel alive

I’m saying too much of what I need to hear.

The scars around my neck announce themselves- the problem is they’re invisible. My invisible source of guiltless pleasure- I deserve it.

I left my body twice today- once when I woke up, the second time I was lying down, I never felt more in touch with myself.

Numbness colonizes each part of my corpse- it makes each cell slowly tingle into casual disparity.

I try to talk, but some words are too heavy to enter others’ ears.

So I lay down and relinquish the wrestle with majestic pain; after all, it makes me feel alive.

Inkk

I love anagrams; I think they’re a writer’s puzzle and a readers maze; anyways, I’m not here to talk about anagrams today.

Everyone has an inkk. Whether it’s subconscious or not, the universal human desire to escape normality during what can be a gamble of love or just a casual exchange between strangers is beautifully disturbing.

Still, even the most traditional souls know that when committing The Sin, there is something unusual to be explored- something erratically holy.

Like many others, this taboo takes over our actions and minds even when pondering guiltless thoughts.

The thing that makes me mad is that most people will die without experiencing wondrous peaks of desire because they misconceive it being “too weird.”

If you feel like you are one of these people, find your inkk, explore it and play with it.