Corridor of Thoughts

“Aliens are hard to spot. They park their spaceships around the corner. And they hide their antennas when they speak to you.” - a quote from my father.

True knowledge arose on considered contemplation 

Combination careful, skilful, internal examination 

Realisation: Wise. Arrive at location of confident perception; A previously allusive conclusion --- Conclusive.

  Such sharp specificity was slippery to fasten as fast begot faster; blurred thought, connection did loosen;  Melt prose, dissolution;  spark over-mentation,  Over-active, synaptic, electric, creation hyper-dynamic; hyperactive; hypermobile  Rumination…

  Recoil;  recall particular precision,  focus forceful fixation  Step deduction, decision;  repeatedly reminded  Dilemma defined… rewind…till Unwinding…

  Scorn vulgarity of overthink; overthrought  Overwrought;  restrain imagination;  censor; cage, till barring to bolt  Break bank, free river of torrential self-talk;  self-censor till tenser twists tenser… Query Self and Subject; subject cross-examination; Objection  Audacity of inquiry, regards capacity…

  Till truly, maybe, think; that think, what thought  predicament of speculation bought  From store entitled “internal monologue”  Discourse constant dialogue defining meaning of ‘friend’  Protect against lonely…if only, if only…

Dear Priest!

I have a confession; one of oddity, and emphatic apology 

To convey to you, with the utmost, transparent, honestly

I am a Sinner, a Whore, and a Liar.

Allow me to qualify my admission

The character of my unrighteous deceit: intrinsic omission

  For, I am nay a character of innate, automate, confrontation 

Of artful-articulation, overt external flagellation

So: Please may I apologize? Mind me, meanwhile  

mind explodes; simultaneous sense and feeling implode

Trapped within that calloused, crude frame you defined: Vile

My character contracted demoted, subtracted exacted: no more than your passer-by: whore

Brisk burn or bite of ‘brand’; brims onerous overtone

So solemn; is, such simplistic linguistic label lingers laden

lumbersome load; heed:

Man’s mandate: burden be borne as a boxer fastens façade: Embrace - fist to face

for buried bruises bleed

gush a garnet gully; still. Devise:

deep disgrace demands disguise;

  before street turned setting; turned twisted stage

Characters in roles of clockwork constant charade

Costumes: padded, stitched, sutured, blackened blazers,

Tailored to perfect struts for cherub-casket, centre stage

Atop which perched, sat; fat, statuesque mannequin doll

Cast lead role

And now, I, as the passer-by

Intending merely to pass you by

Cannot distinguish:

Priest, mourner; or performer;

Paralyzed amidst the flock

  Is horrible moment of realization; shock

That which I have stumbled across; am subject to bare witness

Is the grandest twisted performance

Of a contradictory Nativity

Where birth and death meet funeral festivity

And protest merges with distorted sunDay Service

  Performers pronounce, or perhaps propel, pronouns

Without pause

And the thundering thwarted thwack; relay; thwack

Echoes the beat of runaway fluttering heartless hearts

Hearing horrid cacophony of the fallacious funeral

A soulless symphony

  Jury of gentlemen jabber: “gestation”

Prattle, chit-chatttle; tongues twang taste of term, “termination” 

But in your theatre of players, and worship, and ‘savior’

I see little more than a stadium of a roundabout requiem

A colloquium of barbaric behaviour

And deadly delirium

  So: Sirs; in actuality

Your mockery musicality

is mere protest; picket and profanity  

Thus I am drawn to deduce

This performance is the epitome

Of a moment in which art imitates life’s bigot brutality 

  And abusive articulation, brimming boiled flagellation:

Feeds the feeling that it is I who am enduring the process of arduous aborting!

  Still; standing upon your stage is tantamount to tipping, tip-toeing,

Feeling, forgoing

Fumble knife’s edge

Behold barbs booming

Ledge looming; look down:

Grave where

Frame forms form forming carcass; emaciated

Freedom elicited

Freedom is a flock of songbirds afloat beyond the horizon 

And now all that I can hear

The sound of your doctrine rising,

Resounding resolute;

Absolute;

A royal blue chant of slander, spectacular

Your vocality: simple, soulless vernacular 

And now it feels like the priests are their own sheep flock

Thus this interaction is merely a discourse between audience and cock

  So, sirs, stand if you must on you chauvinist stage

Where statuesque babe appears a perfect porcelain prop

Dead-weight; dumb-bell feet; lumberous lead legs spread wide

Such stupendous space in-between

I’m amazed at how slutty you’ve surely never been

  Whilst I implore you, this response is an exploration, nay interrogation 

Although, I am now not certain which of us is confessing 

The cynic in me, tells me that it is I; as your subject 

Or perhaps object

Object with no capacity for objection

  Naïve whore did not appreciate the audacious, flirtatious, wisdom of those knighting themselves wise

Whore did not bow, did not bend over

Did not realize,

Obviously: the ultimate definition of woman's integrity is defined by the 

Pliability and tension 

Of the fabric encasing her thighs 

Excuse me? For apology, now an innate quality…

Becomes a difficulty, for shame and slander regarding sin  

Limit me, forcing me to ask permission to be insulted

  Oh MY! I have given, my most honest confession!

Brimming with aggression, digression and manic depression

But golly, let me count the moments of defiant transgression

Or, whatever, and fuck it, and proceed the procession!

For this emotional barrage

Must surely reaffirm the accusation that, I have

Of myself, too much, discharged

  Perhaps my response is insanity, enjoyment of profanity or something else entirely

But, please, sir, please; resolve me

My whorish sins and absolve me

Because: I am so fucking sorry

Simplistically: there is more in my mind that exists in your philosophy

Of  'look-the-other way"

Of "toe-our-limited, linear, line"

So, how stupid am I to make,

The mistake of disGracing your perfect pavement line

Of what I perceived mere concrete;

Perhaps the superior metaphor for your dictated doctrine beastly beat?

Where: a foot kissing concrete evokes accusation: woman of the street.

As surely this expression of 'objection' is tantamount to a rejection of implicit social law – that assigns deadly suppression 

To any woman who catches "Whore"

  For whilst I know, your performance is phallic fallacy 

There is little to do to extinguish the pain of your tortuous travesty  

That nebulous noun, “no;”

No lacking that little linguistic letter that distinguishes night from knight

Which is to say, no is sinful, when heard

Regardless of whether no is; or is not, a 4 letter word

For, in your flight of fantasy fight

No is more lewd, more crude, more vulgar than the one word sentence your NObility

Thrust in my directionality

And now, I am a word, and little more

A world burning as branded, this ruby red, “Whore”

  With regards the knotty notion: sin

Is evident a mathematical misuse

Of numerical additive

Necessary to deduce

The emergent properties inherent to sin

As, sin is greater than the summation of intercourse, course discourse, slut or sensuality

In reality, ‘Sir’  

Sin is merely honesty

Contradictory

To some noble man’s philosophy

  Thus,

I beseech you

Abort this adamant address; fraught full of friction 

And engage in an actual conversation

In your pursuit of pro-life conviction

You’re murdering my child-like positivity

(From the comfort of your backwards, frat-house nativity)  

  To make my perspective a little clearer

Permit me;

Offer you the gift of something sweet

And Rubik rectangular

For that gluttonous high horse

He is truly Trojan and spectacular

For fundamental to your violent vehement vernacular

Is, a sinful nature, simply Spectacular

  And, if perchance, I have lost you,

And reality has turned a tad askew

But know this

And, sadly, simplistic, little more

In my reality no one is entirely noble at all

And whilst I shall play the role of your whore

To me, you are a charade, a malevolent, mercurial, masquerade

So sirs, adieu

And I in playing whore

A knobby-knotted nervous nerd

Knows numerous notions most absurd

Fanaticizes fanatic physics formulations

Artful articulation of algebraic altercations

Still, the segregated spectator, in silent shroud

circulates amidst the clique of electrons’ cloud

  For: Nerd; foolish; fumbles forming formulation of feeling feelings

Stutters utterance in symbolizing sensual sensitivities

Circumnavigates consonants confessing corporal connection

Ties tongue twisted with trigonometric tenacity

Pause; perfectly pronounces the inverse technicality 

  Constructs soft compromise in observation

Sheltering behind shattered screens never known

For do not we all own those sugar glass I-phones…?

Feeding fickle, flick, flick, flick 

Yet, we’re all still watching Netflix featuring chicks 

with which we’d never click

  Whilst TV shows role-play contrived correlations

Peering through glass to humanity’s zoo

Variables frame actor’s affinity askew

Resultant: some pseudo sense of relation

nix necessity for scenery shift;

  Merseen mortals mix amid migratory drift   

Colonies of convoy-company prosper,

pulsing prime-time circulation

Still; nerd finds affinity fluid, Elucid; theoretical, illogical

Ever a lure, Eluer; allude to a tenuous temptation

To tessellate;

  Yet, the ultimate ensemble is simple;

a somber sample, subdivision of a union;

For, principle proven: if nerd were a digit she’d be an irrational integral

Nebulous, never incredulous, quizzical, clinical,

Ever the individual; Rarely the reciprocal 

  Thus, nervous nerd: control, shift, command, a taB absurd 

Netty, natty, so often batty

Dearly dotty; occasionally spot-if-I…do so say

simple savant cannot capture a Selfie;

Peering, leering longing through life’s looking glass, aloof, a goof  

For, in the interface Sleeps, glaring, the naked truth

  How Un-PC would an Apple be if encased in an offline embrace?

Regardless, legless, running rabid amid the Rat Race 

For, one Apple a day keeps more than ‘dear doctor’ at bay

Do not stare at Me, as I ogle the screen

Touch teases touch; torment of tactless textiles: I-pod, I-phone; Nix Eye contact

Cyber sever feels safer than ever really being Seen.

  Still, I needn’t be a time Lord

Or a Man in an oblong office

Beneath the white arch of parliament

To find the end of it all

That I’d run rings on those wonky walls

And we’d get nowhere ever faster; still in strife

Like a stationary bike; or a hitched sort of hike

Yet, in actuality, the only alien in my life

Is the man next door; or the teller at my Local Store.  

  If you keep this distance so ‘world wide’

You will for always be dissatisfied

with the human race

Obsessed, as we are, with prattle at a pace; so lightening fast

I cannot think of a single thing ‘built to last.’

  As we play dodgem cars on path named “punt”

with those fellers we call proper perverted….c--- ‘clams’

We are All in this jam

Jar; so, let’s drink cocktails

And don’ glasses; rais’em

Pause, and ponder a solution to something greater than mere gluten.

  After all, we are all Children of the Tube

Who learned ‘lewd’ before ‘include’

Stare before share,

In a world where one can unsubscribe from any care;

No One is from

Anywhere.  

  So, I look up from that I-phone; Entirely;

To realize I’m alone

I a sea of digits just like me.

For this Pariah, this Outsider wishes to tell you, with complex clarity: 

In reality, the only Elephant in the room

Do we ever STOP;

to LOOK at the scars of others;

and to FOLLOW their paths back;

and PONDER their arrival,

Don’t be too fat  Don’t be too thin  Try to be funny  But of course you must Fit in

With that said: be unique  Be interesting  And never be stale  It’s not the ‘done thing’ to just relax and exhale

Be confident; Be humble Be ‘vivaciously demur’  And whatever you do

don’t let people know  That you, like You. 

We live in a world of should and musts where there’s nothing scarier  beneath all the Layers  Than the real girl in the mirror. 

Where fashion meets pornography  and retouching is the major component of photography  In a world of highlights Lowlights Laser and toxicity  It’s strange how beautiful  Is the Face of

Dear sparrow,

You, are - BEAUTIFUL

With withered wrist, bruised the most sensational hue of blue

In the darkened valley of a frail figure

I evoke

The; perfect; polyphonic note…  

 My dulcet dilated eyes

See you,

Belladonna, beautiful

These fingertips caress those concave curves

Leaving lovers lingering sensational signature

A tattoo reminder

Stronger than any ligature binder

Cannot those translucent eyes

Bare witness to such beauty?

Darling!!

Smell the sense of wonder lust that touches us

Feel the trance as we Dance!

Come!

Come With me;

Trust in me!

I’ll lead those petty pins to the dance floor

Display

The most magical musicality of twisted tango meets red-shoes ballet

Mirror, mirror on the wall…

Is not my paper fine doll the most beautiful of them all?

Oh–tired temptress

I see our romance has left you breathless

Rest, sleepy sapling,

These timber hands will beat

That fluttering-flittering

Battling-grappling

Dreary-dulcet

Stop

Start

Heavy heart

Watch, darling, your masculine magician moan,

Conduct rustic romance

Those red raw notes

Tuned twisted trance

Look; look; lovely…

How my fingers stroke the keys of those collarbones…

In the hollows below their ruby red highlight

Is where I drink to my gluttonous delight…

These hands wander and weave work

A psychedelic-artistic-quirk

I play and pluck the Braille of that ridged spine

The cold blue mark drawn there

Simply Sublime…

Darling

Am I tickling you?

Defiant beauty,

That silent shiver as my knuckles kneed you

Needn’t leave you nervous

Those vehement vibrational sensual sensations

Are merely an echo of how

LOUD; IS; MY; LOVE; for you!

Perfect puppet princess

As I Pulse those tangled strings

Listen to

Your musicality simply ring; resounding!

Compounding

So symphonic!

Exceptional!

Emphatic!

Erotic!

This composer tunes those sharps and flats

Slithers, slips and slides to stand solid for always

Reside at that scarlet side

My promise, feeble pheasant  

If ever you slip

I WILL always catch you

With a lightening grip

Feel the thunderous thrill as I squeeze a little tighter

You crudely love it

My flightless fighter

Scorn what withering wing

Scream spectacular!

Sing!

Lithe finch

Do not flinch!

I will not bite you

That note, still a semi-tone sharp

Is merely a lover’s peck

Placed perfectly at the nape of a narrowed neck

But; Darling, your paper fine skin is cold in my clasp

The precipice of those hips

Burn Icicles in my grasp

I will warm you

Lay down darling,

Slow……

In the deep bed I have dearly dug for you

A blind octave below

In sleep we will forever intertwine

Puny ponderings writhe and wane

Think little as I perish pain

Such baited breath dampened deft

Stirs slumber’s tremble; twirling treble-to-clef

Languid lover; I will ignite those hollow bones

For; in the shadows of eternal pose

Is where she blooms

It took five hundred and twenty six thousand minutes to die. I counted. I counted every minute that I spent with her and every minute that I lost a little bit more of myself. I was fighting a war I could not win; but I was happy to die trying.

Nights with Ana are an echoing silence. The days are numb and cold. Peoples faces slip past my own; laughing nonchalantly about some secret happiness, smiling through me as though I am not there. And in the lonely corridors of my mind,I cry a piercing scream; I cry for a battle that I can never win and I retreat further into the familiar, smothering ink of darkness. I run back into the conflict of my soul.

I was scared of loosing my freedom; my freedom that is control. If the world around me was so intangible, so vast and incomprehensible, then I was at least going to have the freedom to control myself. At first it was the little things; the time I woke up, the marks I got at school, the people I associated with. But slowly over time, it became more than this. Somewhere, pooled within the sickly tar of my heart, another person emerged. In a world that was ever changing, this person was constant. She was fun and bubbly and happy and she was always, always there. The only problem with this great new friend was the rules that she made; the mind games she played. At first, she murmurs you are worthless, that no one else will ever want you. You are afraid because she is your only friend, and you are so desperate to please her. But even though she maintains she hates you, everyone hates you, she promises that if you are willing to follow her lead, she will offer you safety and security. And for this inkling of happiness; the chance of brighter tomorrow, you follow her with a devout blindness. Little by little, her elusive poison seeps into your own mind. Your friends  and family start to fade and disappear and Ana stands closer and closer. Closer still. She is a part of you now. She is with you all the time now, she whispers into your ear, her toxicity making her seem all the more attractive.

Your life is slowly being corroded and your identity is invented by the trauma you live through. You try to find some meaning in your suffering to survive rather than just exist. Perhaps that is the paradox of all conflict: that you can survive and not survive both at once. Everyone struggles with the invisible, inevitable battles inside themselves, but the mystery is, some get wounded in ways that are liveable, others do not. And you cannot help but wonder why it is you who cannot forget the guilt and the scars of dissension that mar your back. Coward she hisses.

No one can understand you now. Even you have become lost in the maze of your own mind. You have stumbled, and swerved from the path on your map and suddenly you are hurtling towards some uncertain stopping point. But because you are unwilling to let anyone else in, hatred and fear are allowed to flourish driven by the tides of ignorance and blame. You blame yourself for everything. You curse yourself for the things that you have done that cannot be undone. You blame the problems of the world on yourself. You look into the mirror and wonder if what you see is real. Why am I so horrible? Whose reality are you in? 

And still you try to nourish that flicker of hope but nowadays nothing is fabulous and nothing rises from its ashes. You long for some kind of permanence, a notion in which you have never believed. You wonder if the Justice above can ever acquit you at the judgment seat of your own conscience.  And in all this confusion, Ana once again wraps her icy arms around your shrinking shoulders. Skin on skin. Bone on bone. You are nearly there she croons. You are nearly perfect. 

But nothing you do is never good enough, the higher you jump, the further she raises the bar. Now it seems all of your energy, every second of your waking moments is spent pleasing her.

The power that you initially craved has been lost. Instead it is taken by a far away voice. Now you are playing by her rules and when you do wrong- you must be punished. But she expects so much from you, she demands so many things and you are driven to exhaustion in trying to please her, trying to blockade the seas of loathing that crash up against the walls of your heart. And every now and then, you crack because you are fallible and human. But Ana will not forgive you and so once again you find yourself retching over cracked veneer of the sink. Trying to purge yourself of more than just food. And even though you know this action is inherently wrong, Ana eludes you into thinking that you have control, that’s is your choice as much as it is your fault. You find comfort in the familiar.

You’re lying on cold tiled floor. You pause for breath. You feel a sickening kind of exhilaration- a sense redemption for your inherent  failure. Your heart is racing. All that time I  carrying my own fear around, but I kept it quiet, turned my ribs into prison bars to trap it inside. This seemed to me proper, to carry it there, unseen. I was always afraid of losing happiness..

The decent to hell is easy, but to return, to retrace your steps to light above; that is the work, that is the challenge. But inside you is a nagging desire- a place above of which Ana often speaks. Death is the only absolute value in my world. Lose life and one would lose nothing again for ever. I envied those who could believe in a God and I distrusted them. I felt they were keeping their courage up with a fable of the changeless and the permanent. Death was far more certain than God, and with death there would no longer be the daily possibility of love dying.To kill myself was surely to grant an immeasurable benefit. Death takes away vanity, death takes away Ana, death grants freedom. 

But now I am haunted by my bones. By the overlay of realties, the way I knew, and didn’t know.  And my old self, she lived right next door, there and not there. She  ignored us, or I  told myself  stories that made it all right, horrible stories, and worst of all the stories were true- the tragedy and heartbreak of a broken mind.

And yes, Ana has a reason for everything, and there is a  myth that we chose to follow her. We don’t. We never did. No one chooses Ana just like no one chooses death. No one chooses to lose their mind, to lose everything and everyone they have ever loved. I see the numbers on a scale and they are never low enough, I want them to go below zero, I want them to be above and beyond what is possible; I want to be air.

Because up close Ana isn’t anything but a scared and feeble person trapped in their own asylum, friends in shock, relationships torn apart. Families broken. Reason broken. Hope broken. The line between mine and your reality broken. Broken happiness, broken roads and broken bridges. The broken faith and years of broken promises. And all along, Ana spinning a deep sweet dream, there and not there. You, chasing phantoms, running uphill to nowhere in pursuit of a receding mirage of absolute safety. But no matter how fast you run, she will always taunt you. 

It took one minute for me to realise that life is not a meagre redemption, it is substantial and it will not last forever. 

It took one minute to end thousands of minutes of pain. 

I’ve seen more than a few posts on Facebook lately about the mistreatment of women and lack of women’s rights. But, in a day and age where females (on paper) have achieved so-called equality, what do we now define sexism as?

And perhaps more pertinently, who are its victims?

I define sexism as the expectations we set upon persons of a particular gender or, more specifically, that any male or female must adhere to a certain stereotype. It is not solely an issue of women’s rights – though this is what most often appears in the media. It is about equality and respect of all people in all their differences.

In 2015 I’m not talking about differences in pay, rights to play certain sports or victims of violent crime. These are the extremities of a far more wide-spread cultural issue. I am talking about the small things. Because it is from these small things that dangerous and violent things grow.

It is that a smart girl will be called ‘crazy’ not ‘intelligent’ or ‘ambitious’. It is that a girl who speaks her mind will be called a ‘bitch’ not ‘confident’. It is that a girl who beats the boys in sport will be called a ‘man’ not ‘fit’ or ‘strong’.

And it is not only girls who suffer from these expectations.

It is that a boy cannot wear a scarf without be called a ‘faggot’. It is that if a boy does not agree to punch on with another he is called a ‘pussy’. It is that if a boy sleeps with ten girls, he is applauded not criticised.

And to some degree, we are all responsible for setting these expectations. We often set them without even realising. No-one should ever have to adhere to any particular standard in any area of their life owing to their gender.

So perhaps that is the ultimate challenge in this modern age: to be free from expectations of both ourselves and others. Diversity gives the world colour. A world of stereo-types; of house-wife women and only brawny men – would be rather bland.