Analogy Postmortem
AnasAbdin
YOU ARE THE REASON

blake kathryn
hello vonnie
Keni

Andulka
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
$LAYYYTER
Today's Document
will byers stan first human second

⁂

No title available
Cosmic Funnies
trying on a metaphor
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
almost home

Kiana Khansmith

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣

Discoholic 🪩
No title available
seen from Türkiye

seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States
seen from Malaysia

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Singapore
seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from Poland

seen from Canada
seen from Lithuania
seen from Mexico

seen from United States

seen from France

seen from Thailand

seen from United States

seen from Germany
@thehuntingcap
Analogy Postmortem
WInter in the City Never Felt Like This Before
Thought on Why Neither of Us Ever Said These Words Out Loud
LBB
Repetitiveness VS Plato
Come sweet sister comfort me
lull me to sleep in exotic tales
story-telling of the ancients
gods and demons as snakes on the roadside
and the hair of shaven monks clings together
through magnetic mountain-top meditation
come sweet sister comfort me
tell me of the free land with a price-tag on everything
tip for a hitchhike-lift
a thousand smiles of conquest over
hordes of us invading
countryside and village by our sought after presence changing
should you come sweet sister to comfort me
remember me of the young angry men
them on the streets at
Victory Monument concerts with bad sound-technicians
shouting for – or against – a King I hardly knew
but now for his people fear
come sweet sister comfort me
about the gun singing in the streets
and the friends in the prisons
and the doctors and artist
and the voices of poets,
that they should be heard singing
come sweet sister comfort me
of something both you and I can’t deny,
on dogs barking on highways
shot in the middle of the night
and the Three King Square greeting
and the sounds that kept me awake every night
and the lights of Chiang Mai,
those can’t have gone out
so come sweet sister and comfort me
the brothers must be ready still
wind wasn’t on the mountain broken
white goose on the water and a canopy of green
and all other omens and metaphors
come sweet sister comfort me
lull me to sleep in exotic gunpowder-revolution dreams.
ginger waitress in a dead-end bar with low-life patrons
ginger waitress in a dead-end bar with low-life patrons
Is it not obvious to you,
Queen of the subliminal plaything,
that you play delightfully conflicting
hormones to your advantage.
That you dance in held glances,
sensually contorting living rhythms,
and predominantly male crowds around
you fall prey to dominating mesmer.
And he there sits flexing
muscle, cocksure counting hours down
to minutes as you perceive eternities;
this distance –…
View On WordPress
what final rendering escaped me
what final rendering escaped me
What final rendering escaped me
She was talking puppet sleep next to a lectern I did not conceive
And every puppet through an online screen could see her ways were not maternal in a conflict – mere rejections of the willpower to change completely
From a powerwoman to a little girl yet she controlled the hints deliberately
Light green bespectacled adorned in no other justification of her own…
View On WordPress
they've seen him
they’ve seen him
They´ve seen him
Bearing teeth behind grey cage
Of old age bars, this King
Out of his element
Unchallenged by law
Broken old tiger, forsaken
By fearful cubs – done right -
He believes, unable yet to see
Back and forth paces
Left and right gazes
Roars loud and proud (testosterone empowerment and unscathed balls he puts on tabletops to look
at him and dare not criticize, you mortal!)
Age old…
View On WordPress
a summoning
Command me now spirit!
I am yours
I am yours to whim
To knead
To move
Stitched strings to my nerves
Prepared my muscles in silent meditations
Spine needles nervous systems exposed
And my fingers are smoke numbed
To ring my voice in the lonely
Breathe
Breathe with power
And unknown twitching scars; tap!
Believe
It is imperative success
I fold my eyebrows not in contempt but
In the leaves of…
View On WordPress
slumber-culture
stared at my computer
drooling
nothing to write
nothing to say
nothing to be
cold feet and my glasses
hurt my eyes
and my shoulders hurt
my neck
and my head hurts
my brain
and the sun will shine always
tomorrow
View On WordPress
these are the days
these are the days
stared at my computer
drooling
nothing to write
nothing to say
nothing to be
cold feet and my glasses
hurt my eyes
and my shoulders hurt
my neck
and my head hurts
my brain
and the sun will shine always
tomorrow
View On WordPress
Navigating mine-fields
This weekend I forgot my mine-detector at the door. Usually it's one of the first things I remember to bring with me but not this Friday. Sweeping it from side to side, maneuvering through IEDs is what I do in order to stay okay. Every step is a gamble. All my chips are on the table and I throw them unto the pile. Stakes may be high -they always are- but I never back down. Even though I see through hollow bluffs like the back end of a two-way mirror. Dangers of losing cross my mind more than the euphoria of victory but I'm already in the game. My entry fee has been paid. As the best of friends pieced my jigsaw-remains of legs back together, I wondered if I could ever have lost. True, mines exploded in my face, I crawled out of the battle-field crying "medic", and the few chips I had left were down and out. But I lived, dammit. Maybe there could have been more to many of it. But looking at my mine-sweeper now leaning aimlessly in the corner of the hall, I start to realize most of its redundancy. My body-armor lay in bits and pieces on the hall-way and living-room floor and perhaps that was my true mistake. Mines are everywhere and you can't go around avoiding them all your life. You can choose to protect yourself from the impact though. Otherwise you'd be piecing your legs back together every weekend.
Is this a thing?
Wait! I cannot remember the last time I was so confused. What the hell does it mean for a government to be “shut down”? Congress doesn’t allow government spending after december 2014 because Obamacare is most likely to be enforced? The US won’t be able to pay their debt?
Where does that money come from anyway? Who finances the government? Who has the right to say government can’t be funded anymore? And even if these rights are bestowed upon a group of people, isn’t this the epitome of bad governing? Why, for the love of all that is good, would you blackmail an opposing party into agreeing with you in a way that can be potentially harmful? And I say ‘potentially’ because I have no idea whether a shutdown is harmful.
So many questions…
Am I the only one confuddled?
Perhaps Lucy needed a new fur coat. Perhaps, after all, she had wanted a palace instead of this place. You never knew how you were treating a woman.
Ernest Hemingway
Insomnity
Sleep is beautiful. Sleep is what gets me out of bed in the morning. The prospect of going about my daily routine only to return to the comforting womb that is my bed in the evening, drives me away from thoughts of suicide. And besides, the deep slumbers we occupy our nightly hours with happen to be beneficial to our brain’s learning and organizing processes. Sleep helps us not go completely bonkers after every frustrating day.
But what happens when you do so little during the day, that sleep becomes redundant? When you are not challenged or pushed beyond your limits, your days filled with the same unexciting uneventfulness that could well satisfy many a flock of sheep so that, in the end, your brain has learned nothing and has nothing to put in order. Then the huge merit that sits inside your cranium starts putting in the overtime to compensate. And it sucks.
I hate how I keep going over every single relationship I have ever had. How I keep replaying every conversation I had with those persons until nothing remains but a feeling of guilt and uncertainty. Or actually the certainty that I messed up. Because for some strange reason, I always seem to mess up the things that would have worked out great for me. And I always mess things up in a way that leaves my not-so-significant-other-anymore hating me and trying her utmost to banish the very thought of me from her memories. You truly die when you’re not remembered, right?
I hate how I keep going over my list of books I have borrowed out to friends. Yesterday I noticed a copy of Bob Dylan’s Tarantula on my friends bookshelf and tonight I can’t help but wonder wether it’s my copy or not. Had I borrowed it to him? He has my copy of Catcher in the Rye. But does he also have my copy of Tarantula? Another friend of mine has my copy of Watchmen, that much I remember. Should I get up and check my bookshelves? Way too lazy for that kind of crap.
I hate how I subconsciously keep going over the callus on my right-hand middle-finger I got from writing. And it’s not that I write so much. I just hold my pens in a death-grip, afraid as I am that like my former girlfriends and books they will slip through my fingers and I will lose them forever. Every night wondering where they are. Someone else’s vice-like grip? Someone else’s bookshelf? Someone else’s arms?
Worst of all: I can’t stare out of the window until I fall asleep because I can’t see a thing without my glasses (jinkies) and my accommodations right now do not allow for any night time activity other than silently typing this blog.
The mind is a wonderful thing. If only it would leave me alone.