… and she said, “I can see so clearly now, even with those hunks of dolerite obscuring vision in both my eyes!”

ANGER
is permissible
but RAGE
does not avail much
FERVENT PROTESTATIONS in search of VINDICATION
are as efficacious, and as misdirected, as a puff of air exhaled
in the face of a gale when one is so transparently complicated
let’s continue to talk past each other
our understanding is mutual

still, i wanna put this out...

who does she live for? surely not herself. she did not open her eyes to her body until it was unhealthily dangerous. all the time, all all the time, all the time i see her eyes pass judgement and i want to burn her hair. will she ever learn? will she ever be one of us, someday join us as the Lennon song goes?

Or is she "happy" to be functioning like an appliance, and struggle like a child retarded. she judges harshly, like sand grates the dry eye…judges and judges and judges everyone like a sage, yet she is yet to grow and learn that she is a woman now and can’t hide her face behind a doll. wisen, girl and chill the bile.

fucked up by elitism yet she lives among the poor and carnage, she judges herself, gets conflicted and bleeds. and fills up with bile again. like poison out of her lips, it is all she spurts. she is a tool, an instrument against who she is. she is needy, awkward. and refuses to take a leaf out of the book of chillers - a gospel of being happy for who you are.

i promise you, for as long as she lives to judge people and mock their passions, she will never find happiness, she will die by her hand, like a harlot, because all the hearts she hurts because of who she thinks she should be will curse her to the grave. my heart curses her future if she should have one.

the fucked-up judge

she lives a disconsolate life overflowing with dissatisfaction, emptiness - because like a dog she has been trained, and like a dog she learnt. like an android metallica, she knows no other logic.

will she ever fuck a boy and not nose-bleed about it?
huh?
will she ever light a cigarette and puff away like a chiller bold, a chiller liberated? Like me? Like Sne?
no.

she has been indoctrinated to hate and judge, to hate herself for feeling. to be insecure to the chronic point of not being able to offer a compliment. she closes her eyes and secures a dream unreal, a longing to be a cyborg – an automation of all that is perceived to be ‘right.’
how fucked up, man? fuck you.

Sarfaroshi ki tamana ab humaare dil mein hai

Rebellion's hope is still in our hearts.

Salut parents of change. Borne of the dust
we salute.
Let us, modern effigies,
glance back...

Great people, we know, founded our lands. Men of steely minds and bodies darkened with their kindred earth. They were down on the ground, vibrating with pulsing vision, Pain: punishment. adversity. imprisonment. nay! Nay! The courage to remove the glass roofs; to bow to the sand and cower no more.

These are our founding fathers. Think not that we do not wear their genes today. We will bear a country of our will. Produce the world according to I. All else forgotten save Identity.

I know that I may sound low,
but I think that it’s because I like elephants a little less right now.

Also, my plant is dead.
It was fine last night,
and in its second season, as far as I could tell.
Next time, I shall cut a longer section
or maybe not cut one at all.
Just planting, and then watching it grow.
Also, I shall keep a few free to the open air,
to observe the number of cycles before senescence.
I feel a little sad about this; I loved my miraculous wonder-plant.
so beautiful and so unlike anything I have ever grown.

Next time, I shall keep a half dozen.

chillers chat a stream.

every time we smoke we affirm the life in us, we cement a testament - the cloud of smoke that departs our lips is a waving flag that is saying i am alive hahah and it wafts in the wind hoping to settle on a non-ers heart mmm yes, there's something awfully empowering about blowing smoke

"Seretse" is Setswana for "clay" or "mud"

i shall staple this script and pray God to read it...

...i see the ink on paper and close my eyes, i see a moving picture
of the epic - bloodless but grand, unknown but Biblical.
i shall squiggle more words that will whisper to the grand souls of the
land, and rouse us to knowledge - how we got our colors of blue,
black and white. i am he and this blood between us is the
ink i write with, about one who bound the nation
together like muddy clay: white, black and indian; blue, black and white . i will draft and perform. and when i get older they'll call me freedom just like a waving flag.