i am angry. at life. at myself. at the nature of destiny. i want to vent. i want to be silent. i want to disintegrate. i cant look at mirrors because i am disfigured. i cant close my eyes because there are too many nightmares. i am 30 this year. i am too old to repair. i am too tired to live. i fail too often at death.

the poetry on this website is uniformly bad.

and the worst part of it is that it is not just atrocious, it is self congratulatory AND atrocious.

maybe i am fucking mad coz i am browsing through shit after a failed suicide attempt and am medicated and angry at life in general but yeah, this is some horrendously appropriated writing.

Voices, rather. A chorus. Of commentary and interpretation. Of exchange. a chorus that points to the phenomenon of voice as such or, rather, to the phenomenon of changing voice, changing pespective. In a rhythm of voice - absence of voice - voice. This is why, in his later books, the rabbis, privileged interpreters though they are, disappear. They become absorbed into the white space between paragraphs, between aphorisms.

Rosmarie Waldrop, Lavish Absence

the routine is simple.

i wake up at 6 and go for a run. i eat a bowl of fruits. i write till 10 am and then go see patients.

i return and do martial arts for an hour. 

i eat light.

i read.

i listen to a lot of mahler.

i take apart a poem.

i sleep peacefully.

(through the day, i try to retain my presence as a good wife in sporadic episodes of nagging him about his meals.)

A writer, particularly a young and inexperienced writer, feels himself under an obligation to give his reader the fullest answers to all possible questions. Conscience will not let him shut his eyes to tormenting problems, and so he begins to speak of ‘first and ultimate things.’ As he cannot say anything profitable on such subjects—for it is not the business of the young to be profoundly philosophical—he grows excited, he shouts himself to hoarseness. In the end he is silent from exhaustion.
Leo Shestov
Once, the poet knew how to account for his poetry (‘To open it through prose’, as Dante puts it), and the critic was also a poet. Now, the critic has lost access to the work of creation and thus gets revenge by presuming to judge it, while the poet no longer knows how to save his own work and thus discounts this incapacity by blindly consigning himself to the frivolity of an angel.
Agamben, Nudities



qawwal, strip mine me an evanescence of camphor
blossoming its ashen italic in an umbilical worship

a warship at the midriff of that arrogant tombolo
this boy who grew up: a pier of sharks; a debut of eels

he still loves as a muezzin who contorts his inflections
between a goldsmith and a glassblower; that fevered

dactyl limning his throat venerated into a bulletproof
alchemy. a doorway is always open within us; a palindrome,

that glowing amnesia; a pigeon scale, a many-feathered
wilderness. the puzzle of inheritance left me an undulation

of sundew spliced into the acerbic asphalt of the bombed city
the chagrin left us many things; a hole in the opaque roost

a night pregnant with twin rainstorms; we walked for miles
past the police ready to confiscate the reddened rialto of a beating

heart that coughed up stains of ache-drawn arpeggios; to never
touch; to never travel the torture of that crestfallen cavity

he held my hand and the rest of the way was a small light bulb
it wavered over each suspicion of echoes; garbled a cette fois

the morning after as the curfew doubled over the death toll
like a hastily pulled tatami mat over an anthill; we heard the rattle

of unflinching trains running as a cortege
of anonymous pallbearers. sleep is an amateur death;
he whispered into

the cherry-grave of the last cigarette and tossed it out aimlessly
the slag shot through the air - flyspecks of bruised firefinches

when i left that bedroom filled with battlewounds; i was
an unkempt anticipation; pebble and crystal;
a backbone’s blueprint

we never got the courage to ask our dead if they slept better now
or if it is true that it is the world awoken that is teeming with nightmares

Scherezade Siobhan©