علقة الجنينة

Killing the inside out

All my organs are electrified. I look at them in any mirror and they’re just hung there, rich of electric current webs– that which used to be my blood veins. I particularly have a beautifully lit liver, with a mesh of optic-laser-like wrap. How lit they are making a silhouette of a finely tuned skeleton.

Purgatory is the finest shape of Christianity

The only man who can make a woman happy is unhappy. He is going back and forth through his mind. He is wretched to the extent that he asks me for advice. Like a hermit, he lives in a bleak desert with dark haired Filipino nurses, haunted skyscrapers and a father whose only deed is the half an hour he took to be his father. But even there, as poetic and unreal he is, he manages to weave details of life out of those ghosts.

Hated by the Sun

There is a garden. By day, it has all sorts of plants I don’t know the Latin names for. Even though it’s hated by the sun, it still manages to look beautiful from afar in the light. The lights suck you in. You know there are four militia standing on the top of the four trees, found at the four corners of the round garden. Thirty two naked men are blindfolded, running around the garden as the militia whip the skin away from their flesh. The garden, unlike the Sun, is Sisyphean; the light seems to get weary and fade away, yet the whipping continues…

398 slaps received

Not everything that happens needs time. Time makes it easy to prove something existed or happened. Elapsed is an art and history is the masterpiece. But every time I am pulled into this pitch black room and I am slapped by hands that can’t be that powerful and made of human material at the same time, I know time is a luxury for those who can keep track of it. The slaps are followed with an angry monotonic gush asking me to man up. I ask how. I scream how. I burst in tears. I burst in blood. All interrupted by world class slapping asking me to man up. The organs are never lit in this room.

Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s

I lived my life staring at a stage of human acquaintances trying to show off how much they achieved, how much money they made, how needed they are, how the world will stop if they ceased to exist. Everyone seemed to be motivated by a goal, seemed to achieve it, and seemed to be satisfied too – for why else would they show off what doesn’t bring satisfaction? As I faked cigarette breaks outdoors, I made imaginary friends. One day, I read “I met a genius” by Charles Bukowski carved on the hidden part of the wood of the stage door. The next day I met him, younger than I am, faking cigarette breaks and making imaginary friends. He told me it doesn’t have to be this way. I never kissed him but I walked away from the stage building as I felt him, behind my back, lighting a cigarette and reading the poem carved on the door.