paper and pop

vitamins and healthcare
meandering inside all the lanes
of banal didactics
so many stairs, so little left
in the steady hiss of energy left
trying not to speak each day
through the eyes of a child
quite bereft of the courage
to reject any philosophy
that rejects my human struggle


of dark and dreary things

not quite so compelling
as the reflection of the moon
on the blade of a knife
if only, if only
not for a hackneyed sense of courage
add on and on to a cautionary tale
a dammit, why not me
back again to cold fear
how does one fill a void
with a child
and the answer continues to remain
a wild cessation of material
and very very carefully


“the reflection of the moon on the blade of a knife” is a phrase borrowed from one of my favorite poetesses – Sharanya Manivannan


is only real
if you can read by it
it is among
my greatest sorrows
to never truly know
what thats like
explain it, share it
and yet watch it
fill my every dream
understand it relentlessly
become a creature of sight
when I close my eyes
refuse to listen
or speak, withdraw
and not become addicted
to detachment
or afraid of being right
or wrong, of being


time travel

of the few things I hate
answering my own questions is
but why would I
subject a child, my child, to
the box of endless options
for cutting, that my family
was put in our whole life
define a growing life
in an ugly color
on the other hand, I will admit
we needed a lot of scale
to shrink our heads back
to normal size
so can I close my eyes
trust in the process of life
that a child once told me
I lacked, and she was right

a home spire

that becomes magical
by just existing
and of course
I spend all waking moments
pretending its not real
but its been so many years
when all I hoped for
my fellow creatures
was to just keep
bloody carrying on
with life the glorious
I had quite lost hope
of any leftover progress
for my walking years
that it was even possible
for me to be any more
or less

like exquisite ripped lace

tell me from the place above
or below, is it duller than here
say hello to the other
of whom I do not speak or hear
does your omnipotence see
your value change, without breathing
are you immortal now, happier
than your flimsy human fate


Secret and private are hopelessly mixed up in the IP address world.

Damn all the privacy freaks and leaks, they’ve made pointless security a big business today. Everywhere is a cornucopia of outrage about the country and all that it knows about you, that it shouldnt and how it manipulates your life to suit its convenience. I have no idea what these countries and their peoples know about me, or what they can possibly use.

My identity? Its not in a piece of paperplasticrock, take all of em away, I’ll make more.

My life? I am human, I am woman. I love, I understand, I write, I drink. How is it unique?

My privacy? I have a stalker, had one for a few years now, not sure why, but sure means my life’s had meaning. Hey, it pissed off some random dude/babe enough to stalk me, thank you darling, kiss kiss bang bang.

I pay taxes, all of ’em, no cuts, no attempts. I also rage, fight, I am a street urchin with a purse.

Um think I have not a damn thing to hide, or maybe yes, ask again when im sober. On my own, just private, my deepest feelings are mine, guarded, not for sale, not for any price, but not particularly afraid,

If some cunning con did get hold of them. so be it, so be life. Their loss, of the marvel of life, not mine. I tend to view threats to my freedom very seriously, but privacy seems hyped in the average life, mine.

These rumorers and theorists, these tend to be Sheep with an accumulation past tolerance, a graveyard of secrets that burned civilizations and cut hearts, these are real weird growths.

We all like to own our souls, not turn them into marketplace muffins, but some baffle logic, and they persist, and they perpetuate.

For me, its crazy to try to kill someone to hold a secret, what the hell can be so precious? Think about it, yes, no?

Are the regular Sheep so gullible that a state secret in plain sight, revealed on website, television, someday, can convince billions and billions to change direction?

Hah. You must be fucking kidding me, a friend of mine likes to say.

Maybe not, I am no statistician, just one of the derelicts of time, a backwards double jointed crab-pelican creature, one of those wretched soldiers with a powerful will and no innate wisdom.

Damn, I want to be a star wars hero, why are my fingers making me a fucking bunny rabbit with man parts and a god complex?

My laptop is quite cranky today,