tales

i’m part of a pillow sandwich
every night, i place myself in between the sheets
prepare myself to be part of the sumptuous depths of this dreamland.
the more comfortable i am, the more delicious i will look. 
i want to enter the infinity.  
to be engulfed whole by the bouncers of this trip
and into their digestive system we float
asleep in one zone, awake and conscious in another.
sometimes, a bouncer, too experimental in its sleep eater, has a tear in its gout. 
a finger slips out, body in whole, finger print tip in the other. 
you leave a mark. 
you come out the other end, renewed, rejuvenated, refreshed.
you come out glowing.
that is a true mark of a trip well tripped. 

an infinite corridor of hyperlinks,
the web of personalities,
mild to extreme.
hidden behind the glowing words,
the key of the magic white glove.
tabteleport.
another window, another world.  

the letters like curtains,
you step through the doors made up of letters.
clue.  

yet, i still find my mind is this local small city of a home frame of mind, not box, not with bars as dense a cage, but the sort of piet mondrian frame, the composition with (yellow, blue & red) x 2, these 6 faces and 12 edges and 8 dainty corners. 

chora is the transient space/the moment when 
internet reality meets real life.
its the moment you connect with the anonymity of the internet, 
meet a soul, put a name and face to the persona.
its when a digital relationship becomes real. 

In the near future, 

everyone’s presence will be demarcated by their network strength, the radius in which, their mobile devices conquer. In a true to star wars battle, this invisible energy would have morphed with an individual’s aura. This generation of nu energy, morphology of particles, duality of waves and trichotomy of being will define the new person. Still natural and human at core, your influence grows with experience. Not differentiating good from bad, measured by power of emotion, uncannily like publicity is measured by territory on a page and not by tone. 

Net energy on earth would be higher than ever.

your core self,
you grow up like flotilla, a sphere(an onion) or a polyhedron,
the cube, a rubik’s cube, 
curve of the forces that rotate you round with all the possible combinations you could reveal of yourself.
everyday, you either stay comfy with that odd barcode of megapixel combinations, 
or you roll out and unfold and unravel these faces and areas of surface you never knew existed. 
you develop them and bloom till you are at the edge, and you like the way you are for the time you have spent.

you are a soft soul, now plugged in, the electrons that flow as they glow beautiful through the forest of fibre optics. these forests are thick, beyond baobabs, a capillary system like no other. secret server fortresses built to narrow the micro seconds, these homes that house the humming, are rock solid. they hum infinitely, though they cough every now and then.
I write from such a lay perspective, microsoft might laugh.

your vulnerability is a fresh wound, and other soft souls who might find it will relish. born beyond the time that it might be natural now, thought, character develop differently.

you type in your google document interface, white glaring back, if only you could be bothered to find out how to get a background of black, only then would you be able to literally reflect.

process igniting thought,

they only float and fly,
a sky of silk scarves, pegasus anatomised,
in fuschia’s that tint the light, work room flows.
pink.
rose.
warmth.

they bob.
contrast of the inked silk daintily ebb and flow
to the soft hum of the mechanized feeding it horizontally,
while it courtesies individually,
in eager anticipation enroute its maturity that will grace the neck of a woman, fly freely in the wind, poised off a head of hair,
this free plane of silk screen print, free to the infinite possibilities, the infinite shapes,
this free plane, of any possible steps, a recipe of twist and turns, knots and folds,
casual to curves, gold.
unlike origami, the silk trumps with its humanely qualities, donned on the silhouettes of form.

silk, lady & the forces of nature.
gravity drapes.
wind blows.
knots hold.

unrivalled beauty.



let this linger.
warp speed insight. 

you’d be amazed how the thoughts lack in the craftman’s mind,

the blade on its choreographed travels, across only the finest leather landscapes,
patterns cut out from the unravelled skin hide, human around the edges.
negative space appears on the templates now hung on with pegs before daylight.
they could have been inverted curtains, cow spot projecting, as the with the wind.

precision, index finger on the spine of scalpel, beginning slow, pressure crescendo,
on the same routes, yet improvised uniquely for each back it will sit on.
wider around the bottom, asymmetrical on the front.
no matter how inscribed the memory in his muscle, there are no swift flamenco flicks involved, only,
concentrated cuts.

thread will never trot through leather binds, they will only go on syncopated beats,
piercing, stringing, pulling, knotting.
kneaded like the folds of a croissant.

with such practice, only the vision of the end in mind exists,

they are humans crafting perfection,

awls, round kinves, hammers,
trims, routes, to give a zest of leather, finished with gusto.

I’m a burnt bunny, no lessons learnt, radiating heat like an oven, thought the back of the portable air conditioner was emitting hot air, but it was from the highly active convection current circulating within the thin gap between my thighs and the bathrobe draped over me.

the simplicities of life, strawberries, lemons, goji/red berries on the beech/oak light softwood cutting board, the squishiness vs the stable base,do you ever feel like a cutting board, sacrificial? the shield that saves all the battle scars.

the sweet of strawberry,
the strawberry pink juice slips out from the sides of your mouth,the purse of your lips, the kiss, strawberry kisses,

the youth,
tied together with the tangy lemon, the pinching of the leathery yellow hemisphere,
it rains down lemon drops!
if that were 1: 1 and you were 1: 100,
you would stand below the lemon shower, close your eyes tight, stick your tongue out, and squeal in delight at the sour power that intoxicates your body,
you would have yellow polka dot rain coats and rain boots, and they would be sanitized,
and you would jump in those lemon puddles, slip and fall down,
they would sting your eyes, you would shut them tight,
you would wonder around the lemon pool, with your tongue stuck out,
wading around like a duck, till suddenly,
it switches to the other extreme, and you now drown in the intense sweetness of strawberry soup, if seeds were 100: 1 and you were 1: 100, you would now be in the lake, you would hang on to the seeds, from the surface of strawberries like bay watch life bouys, while you follow and flow with the currents and currants, to the red berries, and ribena. this is now heading in the wrong direction with imagery of those silly ribena tv advertisments, where you fall asleep tired, and drift away into ribena animation feat. real life you, into a ribena surf zone or jungle territoria, you,


strawberry fields, foreverrrrrr.