An eternal promise of a twist.

Would you like your mind in a cup of tea?

Would you like some milk with it?

A cookie maybe?

You must have missed living rationally …

It has been a while since I have taken over your intellect.

You know, to be honest, you look better with each day that
comes!

You must have gotten accustomed to living mind-less.
Wit-less.

I can see you are trying to make the best out of it!

Then again, hell with reason!

I’ll keep it with me,

In that tiny purple see-through jar.

I will inject it every day

With distortion and perversions.

You will have it back some day,

Mind you, it will not be the same;

You will not be the same!

In your mailbox, this morning.

Dear used, misused and totally abused fellow,


How can I make you forget that I have raped your mind? I have fucked it, so hard, it blew up.

Do you think I would be able to glue its pieces back together, and make it new again?

Can I paint it a different color this time? Can I give it more abilities? I mean, I’d love to make it more insane yet less daring, more creative yet less damaging, more disturbed yet able to feel …

Can you imagine your mind in pink? Can you imagine it outside your head? Looking you in the eyes, daring you to defeat it?

How can I delete your memory?

Tell me, can you ever forget a twist?

I will be eagerly awaiting your reply.


Yours truly,
Lust

Tango is a dance for two. only.

It is late at night
That she feels
And she crumbles
And she loses control
And she faints


Every night
Same scenario
Every night
Same flow of events


Only He changes
His words
And His endeavors
His dreams
And his trepidations


But she is the same
She is one
With all
And she remains
The illusion of them all

Comatose.

See that blade?

Grab that blade

Caress my crust

Head to toe

Dig it deeper

Into the membrane

Make it hurt

Gratifying pain

Not too deep

Not too superficial

Just enough

To make me ache

Just enough

To make me smirk

Just enough

To make me feel

What it is like

To be real

Free my temple

From attachment

And my spirit

From emotions

Free my mind

From temptation

Then stamp my neck

Your “second-hand” stamp

And send me over

To the other side

Being Her Pitifully Ironic Self*

It is like smelling the scent of his skin,
But not being able to touch it.

Like stepping into a pool of water,
And getting out drained.

Like forcing the knife into the skin,
Watching the blood flooding out,
And not feeling.

Like being a fraction of a second away
From reaching an orgasm,
And having an abrupt emotional breakdown.

Like dreaming of utopia,
And waking up to ugly reality.

Like sparing your virginity,
Till the prince charming on the white horse shows up,
And dying a spinster.

Like accepting loss, never caring,
Yet never daring to try again.

Multiple entombments.

She buried her morals last night

It took her few minutes to do it

No embalming

No eulogy

No grief

An act of pure senselessness

A natural interment

Of a product of the society

They were no longer needed anyways

She could do without them

She should

This is the path she chose

She stood on their grave this morning

With a bouquet of black tulips

No resentment

No regret

No relief

An act of pure pointlessness

She was paying respect to mother earth

For having to lodge her morals

For eternity

Her temple could not take this job

There was a clash somewhere along the line

She surrendered to her feelings

On the expense of her ethics

She will go back to the grave tonight

Mind you she doesn’t miss them

No nostalgia

No angst

No mourning

An act of pure calmness

She is going for different a reason

She will bury you with them tonight

Damaged goods.

As the wind blew in her face, her skin started to shiver again. The feeling of the air, penetrating her skin, through the tiny pores left her numb. She was cold on the outside, yet her blood was as warm as a summer sun. She laid there, on the shore, for an hour, without noticing the time passing by. The night was young, but she wasn’t. She was looking beyond the horizon, seeing her years passing by, empty and forlorn.


Just earlier in the morning, when she looked in the mirror, her eyes were not her own. There was something different about them. She felt she was looking at another person’s eyes… She has been living astray. She has been leading a double life. She lived in different skins. She could not recognize her own organs anymore. Even her voice did not sound the same.


She tried to go through the day, not talking to anyone, not seeing anyone. She wanted to be with her mind, for once. After leaving the pieces of herself shatter, she had to be one again.


She drove all the way to a place she felt at ease in. To her uttermost surprise, she couldn’t make it for even one hour. She could not be with herself. She could not listen to her ideas. Her emotions invaded her. They stood in between her mind and her ears, blocking her thoughts from being heard, coloring their paths to mislead them. She spaced so much from herself and from her reality to the point that she lost herself, amidst all the personalities she had created from her essence.


It was dark, that night. The moon was not full, yet it was shining splendidly. She thought, if the moon does not have to be full to be beautiful, why everything else should? She was talking to herself again … “things don’t have to be full to shine; they don’t have to be complete to be beautiful”. Silence. Then all of a sudden, another thought… “Why the strive to be complete? Why the strive to be perfect?”. Silence. “What is this urge to fill in empty gaps? This urge to understand it all? This eagerness to go beyond the present, to travel into the future and come back handful of answers? What is this urge to daydream about possible scenarios for an event that has not taken place yet? What is this urge to over-analyze the simple things – making small matter immense? What is this urge to complicate the simple and to overrate the normal? Is this all part of being a human? Are all those attributes of the magnificent human mind?”. A longer silence.


She could not tolerate these thoughts anymore.
She gave up.


She is damaged goods.

suffocating.

That rope,
Around my neck,
Is itching
And aching.

The pain
Is intolerable.

The burden
Of my emotions
Is suffocating me.

The abstract
Is becoming physical.

And the physical
Is painful.

Would you mind
Loosening the rope
Around my neck?

She* - revisited

She attracts weird people.

It is not her.

It is them.

And her.

Maybe.

You cannot be sane enough to enter her world.

You cannot be rational.

You cannot be of this world.

You cannot be mundane.

You have to be made of threads of dreams.

You have to feed on illusion and fantasy.

You have to daydream instead of breathing.

You have to let go of your values and your norms.

Are you ready to meet her?

Are you ready to see her, with the naked eye?

Are you ready to give up your morals and ideals?

Are you ready to twist your mind?

She dares you.

Yes you.

She will suck you dry.

She will haunt you down, till your last gasp.

She will be your sun and your shadow.

She will be your world.

She is capable of things that human mind cannot tolerate.

She is worlds apart yet right next to you.

She is in you.

She is you.

Maya*

He didn’t know … she had a razor blade in her pussy.
It is not subliminal.
It is not drastic.
It is erotic, for the neutral eye.
A black veil all over her corpse.
A black, transparent, veil; covering the sins she had indulged in.
Covering the marks on her body – the scars of the path she took to stray.
Covering her moans and her squeals.
Sealing them.
How far had she gone?
Playing with death, all along. She didn’t know it would be that grave.
She had died a million times, before her death.
She had suffered sweet pain. She fought restlessness. She stroke the eye of the maker, right in its heart.
She gave him as he pleased. With a little pain all along.
She suffered the consequences, of an act too much analyzed. Of a thought shaded with tranquility … too much tranquility, the kind that makes the ears scream.
He died on her shoulder that night.
She felt his body trembling, in the last seconds of his present life.
She waited for the transition. She waited for the glimpse of white. For a feather lighted pain. For a dim noise.
But it never came.
She could not live with the guilt – of letting him go, without nature performing her last dance. Before the radiance of the moon and the reverberation of the wind cross his mind and leave him dazzled with death.
Silently, she moved to the other side of reality, watched herself sleeping under a corpse.
The view was unbearable. The pain was excruciating.
She seized to exist.
It was not subliminal.
It was not drastic.
It was erotic, for the neutral eye.