brothers in harms

My brother turns twenty tomorrow… ever been so acquainted with a room you could find your way through it in the dark? It’s sometimes scary to think he knows me that well. I’ve never written about him. He deserves a better writer. He cries never for himself but for the world that never summed up for him. The man I’ll always admire but I never want to be. To be cursed with a clear conscience is not something I’m not man enough to live up to. His conscience was so loud it suffocated me. Right and wrong so clearly cut. Leaving no space for selfish interpretation. I’ve always been a disappointment to him. Sometimes he hides it sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes I feel he’s tied down then again maybe I’m too blinded by my own mind. I still remember the day I opened the door to our room and found him crying as he sang “aerials” aloud. He’s as messed up as me but he has the class to not rave about it like I do. “The world might be messed up and fucked up but I’d rather be in it, I’d rather be in it” he sticks up for me, cries for me, fights for me, picks up after me but never dies on me. Hopes that someday I’ll be the man I want me to be. I love him. I love him and all the people stuck inside him. Anger, loyalty, hope, resolve, faith, fucked up hair, baby face, power, class, depth, dimples, love, care, intellect, sadist, chauvinist, romantic, stubborn. Throw in some rock music and some dirty underwear and poof you’ve got my brother. Do I not show him my love often enough? He told me once “the whole point of friends is that you get to take them for granted” love you broff couldn’t have asked for a better best friend. Happy birthday and fuck you muuuah

blind sight

So the drunken mind is free of such inhibitions that if you weren’t high then you’d be jealous. But then again do I really need alcohol to set me free?? The two questions in me arise thus and proceed to contradict each other… what is the right question to ask? Is it.why do I ever need the high? Or is it do I need to be bound by my inhibitions to blend within etiquette and normality? What do I care for answers and reason when I’m blinded by freedom itself! Defining myself is beyond puzzling. What term do you apply to matter less matter? Should I take solace in the coolness of being the ideal paradox or just cry like you would cause she never cried when you said goodbye? Not a tear for the man who represented the nothingness of everything. And in tears he shouts “you fools I am beyond you. Don’t I see words clearer, thoughts crystal and souls stripped? Am I not what you forgot to be? Do not mistake my plight for weakness! SUB QUESTION-BUT WAIT WHAT IF I WAS WRONG! What if I was fooling myself! But I don’t care now do I …I am elevated …maybe the black sheep was hated cause he begged to fucking differ.” Ah a finger for the lord the Adam the eve and the freaking fucking apple. I aint none the more wiser but a good cause good drink a good thought and a good word soothes the mind any day more than an invisible psyche will!

MIRROR TALK

If I never played could I still miss the game?
If I changed could I still be the same?
If I cried could I still laugh at pain?
If I crawled could I never walk again?
If I never tried could I still fail?
If I never left could I still stay?
If I was whole could I have come undone?
If I forgot could u still remind?
If I wasn’t real could my thoughts live on?
If I wasn’t a fool could I still be stupid?
If I was falling could I be flying?
If I am what I do could I be nothing?
If I lost u could u leave me directions?
If I loved Christmas could u be December?
If I faded away would you… could u ….. remember?

confusion and marmalade

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CONFUSION AND MARMALADE

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Waging a war against the insipid humor that my being derives I plod on through to my next sentence. Ah what shall I write about today? Should I be sarcastic or funny…melodramatic or romantic… pessimistic or optimistic or should I just quit and give in to slumber. Staring at the poster of uncle bob pasted irreverently onto my wall I sing along with him. We are jamming ooh jamming. Wishing to be finding myself jamming along in a concert in Jamaica as the deceased marley stumps his joint out as he proceeds to the next song I move over to my next thought.yaa maan! Almost deciding to spew another array of carefully designated abuses at the cricket players of my country for their indigestible dismal performance at the world cup. I decide against it. Too many people are doing the job. Even my choicest abuses shall be found wanting in comparison. So what next? There’s a pencil lying askew on my table. I love pencils. I’d choose them over pens any day. They smell of fresh pages and pinewood. Sadly they aren’t edible. Wish I had slave monkeys who knew to type. I guess even the cleverest simian would be unable to configure the irritating likes of ms word. What with all the red and green lines. Traffic signaling my vocabulary whilst dampening my idea of my prowess over the same. I wonder why rock died? Don’t people miss the blatant audacity and eccentricity of character anymore? Sadly hip-hop offers no solace. 50 cent reminds me of an athletic hormone induced orangutan. Here lies the grave of 50 cent he sang about thongs and booties and riding on 20’s. Encore! “Thank you all from the pit of my burning, nauseous stomach for your letters and concern during the past years. I'm too much of an erratic, moody baby! I don't have the passion anymore, and so remember, it's better to burn out than to fade away.”- The last Para of Kurt kobain’s suicide note. He killed himself never knowing he was immortal. I suddenly am frightened by the thought that scares me most. The absolute truth that however big the crowd I you and him we’ll always be alone. Privacy resides in thoughts. No voyeur could penetrate that wall. The fact that such thoughts could never be bared frightens me. Bloating the insecurity that defines me. What would you do if today were your last day on the earth? Would I run to her to steal a last kiss? Would I stay home and tell the family that they’d be missed. Would I ask my slave monkeys to type in my epitaph? Would I pray for forgiveness and a seat in heaven? What’d it look like? Heaven? White fluffy clouds, sparking cool mist. White gowned fluttering angels? What if heaven is a state of mind? An overwhelming and everlasting feeling of joy. Then again wouldn’t even joy get boring? Would hell be the heaven for people who wound themselves? Do I ponder too much? Yet never enough!