You know what’s wrong with you, Miss Whoever-you-are? You’re chicken, you’ve got no guts. You’re afraid to stick out your chin and say, “Okay, life’s a fact, people do fall in love, people do belong to each other, because that’s the only chance anybody’s got for real happiness.” You call yourself a free spirit, a “wild thing,” and you’re terrified somebody’s gonna stick you in a cage. Well baby, you’re already in that cage. You built it yourself. And it’s not bounded in the west by Tulip, Texas, or in the east by Somali-land. It’s wherever you go. Because no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself.

– Breakfast at Tiffany’s

"kiss kiss bang bang" by annisadharma

]]> http://dharmannisa.wordpress.com/2010/07/07/kiss-kiss-bang-bang/feed/ 1 annisa Print http://dharmannisa.wordpress.com/2010/06/19/she-sells-seashells-by-the-seashore/ http://dharmannisa.wordpress.com/2010/06/19/she-sells-seashells-by-the-seashore/#comments Sat, 19 Jun 2010 10:09:07 +0000 annisa dharma http://dharmannisa.wordpress.com/?p=352 ]]>

ignites original sin

i fly, i want in

"cosmic orgasmic" by annisadharma

]]> http://dharmannisa.wordpress.com/2010/06/02/a-cosmic-orgasmic-haiku/feed/ 0 annisa orgasmic http://dharmannisa.wordpress.com/2010/05/21/tree-of-life/ http://dharmannisa.wordpress.com/2010/05/21/tree-of-life/#comments Fri, 21 May 2010 13:58:34 +0000 annisa dharma http://dharmannisa.wordpress.com/?p=316 ]]>

"tree of life" by annisadharma

look at things from all angles, and you’ll understand things from all angles.

"bipolar" by annisadharma

I first met him on the beach, not far from where I lived, while the sun was setting. The date was November 16^th; the year before this one.

Today is my birthday.

Those were the very first words he said to me.

His father’s name was Albert, a genius who lived to see his 102^nd birthday.

- Happy birthday, Sir. How old are you today?

- I’m old enough.

He didn’t look old, but he looked antediluvian. His eyes had a calming rhythm; looking into them was like gazing at the sedated ripples of a clear lake with the warm breeze in your hair. I couldn’t pinpoint the colour of his eyes – at first they looked grey, but upon closer inspection I discovered them to be turquoise. At times, they were green with hazel specks in them. For one moment, I saw them to be violet with glints of pink where the light hit. His smile was translucent. I remember his eyes most; it was like glancing into a labyrinth of prisms.

I asked him what his name was.

- Call me Lucy.

His name was Lucy, son of Albert the genius. How strange to meet a man with the name of a woman. I could tell this man held so many experiences and mysteries and tales in him. I sensed he had so many layers to him, yet he was so fragile. Like a glass onion. I wanted my curiosity to get the best of him. I wanted to crush him and coddle him at the same time.

- You want to conquer me.

How did he know? Was I that transparent?

- I merely want to map you out, Lucy. It’s my default defence mechanism.

- I am my father’s invention and my mother’s creation. You can’t map me out because I shift my shape accordingly to you. I am the transcendence of verbal concepts, of space-time dimensions. I have no absolute form. I am free of patterns and structures and I will set you free.

- Why did your father call you a problem child?

- Because I made him realise things that he didn’t know about himself. I am a mirror and some people don’t like what they see. I am a journey and some people don’t have a map.

- I make maps, Lucy, of everything. I told you.

We sat side-by-side facing the sunset, the waves crashing at our feet. The sun dipped low and cloudy wisps swirled around its departing trail of light. The sky was an oozing myriad of colours, which flowed to a lazy choreographic tempo, like Lucy’s eyes. His voice was like the hum of an electronic appliance – steady, constant, monotonous, comforting. He exuded calm and chaos at the same time. He smelled of tangerine trees and marmalade and cigarettes. He wore no shoes and no pretence. I felt like I’d known him all my life.

- I still can’t figure you out, Lucy.

- I know. You never will.

-  You turn me on, Lucy.

- I know. Tune in.

- Maybe I should just drop out.

- I did that once. I dropped out and went to Frisco. Then I bought a wig and slept on my friend Owsley’s floor. I was a stowaway on a ship of fools until I joined the crew and sailed across the universe.

- Oh, what shall I do, Lucy? I’m so lost.

- Why?

- Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and sorry I could not travel both. Be one traveller, long I stood, and waited to unravel both.

- You can’t map out the yellow wood, my dear.

- Why not, Lucy?

- Because the lack of a map is your map.

- So which road should I take?

- That’s the beauty of it. I don’t know and neither do you. Nor will you ever.

- You know what, forget it! I can’t figure you out. I can’t figure myself out. You are fucking with my head, Lucy! I’m even more lost now; you’re disorienting me and confusing me with your bullshit! You said you would free me? Fuck that! Go away! Who the fuck are you anyway, the Chesire Cat? Why are you smiling?

- You’ve hit rock bottom. Can you feel the suffocation? Can you feel the frustration? Can you feel the gnawing itch of anxiety penetrating your chest and corroding your soul? You’ve reached the point of no return. You’ve lost your way, you’ve lost your grip, you’ve lost your mind, and you’ve lost your map.

- Lucy…

- Sssh, baby. It’s only after you’ve lost everything that you’re free to do anything.

The sky was dark, Lucy was gone, he set me free. His father called him a problem child. His wisdom like pearls and his words like diamonds. I saw Lucy in the sky. His diamonds made me cry.

I sit on grass, even though it is gray and gristly. The muscles between my thighs dance to the metronome. It needs no melody, rhythm breeds itself. Spasms are babies of the subconscious.
I am in a room, you are there.
I kiss your brother. I dig my hair into his fleshy chest as his hand cups my cranium. I am butter on a hot summer day. Feelings of unease and desire wash over me, filling my lungs, surging through my joints of morality.
Je suis coupable. Il y a une lettre rouge qui se plante sur mes reins.
Reality becomes the dispersing guts of an atom. The roots of all I know have been chopped off, my tree of knowledge is flailing, looking for a pile of dirt to plant itself in, to no avail.

I know this is not real but I can taste the beads of sweat, salty and hot on my tongue. Every drop tastes like acid tears. I cringe yet I yearn for more.
I almost say I’m dreaming but I’m afraid to break his stupor. I walk on eggshells, hoping he does not realize this is all just a creation of the unintentional. That he does not really exist as the man he portrays at the moment, he is but a name after all.
I am still leaning on his chest. His spectacles droop on his nose. His fluffy pink lips glint with sinew and spit, glinting at each curve. I reach up to greet them and swallow his breath, tasting his saliva and his secrets. Licking the warmth of his source of life.
I am a matador. Holding the bull by the horns, failing to grip my own reins. I greet each thrust with a sigh, muscles aching, veins thumping, sweat dripping, hands digging, toes curling, jaws clenching, throat groaning, hips grinding.
Luscious, rhythmic, comme un oeuf dansant sur un jet d’eau.
I wonder how much longer I can go without finally feeling self-disgust. When reality and the superego kicks in.
I catch a whiff of your fragrance on his navel and a millisecond before reality floods in, I know it is over. My heart stops.

I am back in my room, the ceiling slowly materializing, the glow behind the curtains blinding my virgin pupils. It is quiet. I am alone. Panting, catching my breath, chasing after the images I held captive a few moments ago. A dream I knew was a dream while I was dreaming it. The moon is inching its way to devour the sun, like I have just devoured your brother.

"eye cry" by annisadharma

the eyes look.

the breath took.

humans procreate.

the brain impregnates.

the soul grows.

the lips throw.

the hands flow.

the mind’s blown.

when you stop and  just walk in place.

you become a waste of space.

the soul dies.

the eye cries.

"mother gaia" by annisadharma