The Flagellator

The Flagellator
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Today, there is nothing.
Visits me, Empty.
Only hurt.
Hence, the skin’s ripping off,
This rock is being prodded up.
In order to discover,
Why do you chase pain, when love has blown your cover?
If pain knows not to belong.
You must allow. Do not respond.
For the hiatus…is the response.
Why do you choose to associate with pain? Why today does it affect your ways?
Make you raise hairs. Your gut turns into a centrifugal fun fair.
You go to pain for you are aware, it has been acquainted with love’s lair.

Why do you gaze at symbols that do not change?
And if they did, you cannot read what it states. For the answer lies on an external mental landscape.

Why is rejection the choice, the hated voice, your ears will hear?
That is the only recognisable sound in the vacuum of what you peer.
And in this visible terrain, there is no domain, no recollection that would steer.
Blind and mute, must still walk on.
I carry that label, stamped upon, grossly stapled, forever along.
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I wrote this a few days back, when I was unwell but it still stands. It is the flow of life. But I am learning. I went for a walk today. I found this nature-made scarecrow.
I audioed a few words. I am going to write a sort of epic poem using this walk as reference. What I learned is that I choose the hardest, steepest, not suitable, way. I got lost. I found my way. I lost my phone, I didn’t notice. A human brought it back to me. I was going to need it later on to trace my way home. I reached scots pine paradise. We don’t need to seek. What is meant to cross our way, finds us. So I got to collect stones and branches from my pines, for my druid dream catcher.
Ps: this poem doesn’t end there but the last lines which prompted the poem are only mine to have.

A being in a tree, smiling for the cameras.

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The Wind-Fairies Travels*

The Wind-Fairies Travels*
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Little girl nested herself in her big bed,
Readying to travel to farther lands.
She closes down the blinds, darkness expands.
This is when, the wall slides and moves.
Opening the door to reality unproved.
When the eyes close, that is when she sees,
Foretelling omens and catastrophes.
When the consciousness dreams,
The awareness takes in.
Hearing teachings from mentors,
Dressed in feathers and antlers.
Reality is then, not – here.
Truth and beauty are lamps of a seer.
Once you open your eyes and go about your day.
That is when you sleep, you see nothing.
Life is a long dream, that we picture and feature in. .
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Wind-Fairies – irish folk mythology. a whirl of dust blowing on air or on ground. It is colloquially known as fairies traveling between realms. Funny enough, I saw one pass by, not long after I wrote this. .
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How wicked. Upon writing the last lines – Picture in. I wanted to make sure it conveyed what I wished to so I went googling it. I found this interesting thing: “eye’s mind” / mental image – “to picture”.Check it out:”Imagery seems to have first attracted learned attention when its powerful mnemonic properties were discovered by the Greek poet andsophos (wise man) Simonides (c.556-c.468 B.C.E.). According to a legend passed on by Cicero (106-43 B.C.E.), the discovery occurred at a banquet in Thessaly which Simonides attended in order to present a lyric poem written in praise of the host. Simonides was called outside shortly after his performance, and during his absence the roof of the banqueting hall suddenly collapsed, crushing the other diners, and mangling many of their corpses beyond recognition. Simonides, however, found he was able to identify the bodies (important for proper burial) by consulting his visual memory image of the people sitting around the banqueting table, which enabled him to identify the corpses according to where they were found. From this experience, [Simonides] inferred that persons desiring to train this faculty [of memory] must select places and form mental images of the things they wish to remember and store those images in the places, so that the order of the places will preserve the order of the things, and the images of the things will denote the things themselves, and we shall employ the places and images respectively as a wax writing-tablet and the letters written on it. (Cicero, De Oratore, II, lxxxvi – translation: Sutton & Rackham, 1942). – taken from: https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/mental-imagery/ancient-imagery-mnemonics.html

7 am Stream

7 am Stream
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Woke up today, with tears rolling

Down my face, fear of scrolling.
Zeroing days, dreams end
When the sight opens wide,
Reality is not what you intend.

The need to scream at 6 am.
You are off today but pain alerts.
And there you stand watching the wind,
Rise all the trees to make them dance.
The birds croon a welcoming tune And this exclusive show, is all for you.
So there you stand, are you still in gloom?
The world is not all in your bedroom.
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Unedited poem. The unconscious and its ways. I chose the title of the poem, based on the fact these thoughts came out yesterday, as I woke up, at around 6 am. Curiously, at a later time, I noticed the double meaning of the word “stream”, since I woke up and cried, upon a realisation brought by reality. I don’t seek pity. I only wish to expose the truth. I am not here to pick and choose my experiences. I am here to open wide. This is a journey on /to the Self and that includes, both laughter and tears.
What I gauged from that was, while I sat and cried, the world is moving right in front of my eyes and that little showcasing was all mine to see. A gift from the skies. We are very lucky to be alive, others will not have woken up (a lesson learned via Sadhguru). We reach the next level on the game. So, in those times, we gather the necessary forces to go outside.

You and I

I hear a calling

To create

I feel a longing

To make.

A new life,

for you and I.

Let’s reshape how we relate.

Let’s make art,

Let’s get creative.

Turn into children, get back to craddle*.

Times, where reputation was not a weight,

Hanging over our heads, like our yesterdays.
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I am enamorated of the Irish Scots Pine
*typo.

Written on the 26th of December 2017 and finished today.

Mordaça

Mordaça
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The porcupine lies at the center table.
Rests in a rosy flesh that charcoal has tainted.
The nacreous glare, produced by froth that is ladled.
All of it could be beared. If there was not a gag.
A rotten apple, once stuck, stumps and disables.

The blocking by ordering. The sentencing by watching.
The presence that is make known.
Kelpie hovers, won’t trod along.
The pressure surmounts your soul,
Clenching of the walls, takes a toll.

The pork has turned to toast.
His death for a King’s roast.
He could not scream or muffle.
He has been placed, a muzzle.
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In the planet I once used to live, on my previous life, there were slaves. And when they were feisty and dangerous (would bite and spit and curse), they would have been placed with a gag. I remember seeing a picture of one, a female slave. It has marked me.

Segmented Crash

Segmented Crash
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In the seesaw of life

Your inner child’s hair grows grey.

Though some old life lessons

Never seem to maturate.

Feeling under dispossession,

You keep pressing go,

When ought to press the break.

Soon, you will hit that wall.

One side wants control to overtake

Yet this yearning impulse takes up hold.

Driving towards the earthquake.

Gearing into sought collision,

Causing the self to decimate.

What blew is what breaks-through.

The last pieces that aggregated you.

A new you is, thus, reborn:

A “once was”, a “never more”.

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I wrote this at different times. I ended it today and with this conclusion:

How to Kill A Mockingneed

How to Kill A Mockingneed
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No more desire to congrue, turn two, Mould into.
For now you know, the fault is within you.
These endemic projections of what you cannot accept, on your epidermis, is that,
Copulation is corkscrewed.
Now you know, why you are what you are, and carry what you do.
It is a symbol to remind yourself,
Love is not for you.
Desire fades off, waving farewell.
Once again, crawl, descending to hell.

No wish to pair for you do not bear the necessary apparatus for mating.
Intimacy is a lesson, that makes a blessing, deviating.
Preferable to abdicate, release, gestate.
T’his the only way rejection won’t come to my gate.
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At first, I thought it was odd that this was the title that came to me. But I get it. The title points to self awareness. That is how you kill it (in my case). And the body of the poem comes to explain.
This picture is perfect and it fits but most will not get it.
I have a penchant for the word congrue (agree) but it is not in all dictionaries, it is obsolete. I’ll revive it. Ha.
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