Other Blogsites
MRH
Yeoks
Airina
Iskandar
PostSecret
echoncyllan
Before Gargoyle
One Million Footnotes

Read My Poetry.

Playing:



Between the Bars (Elliott Smith Cover) by Metric



People you've been before that you
Don't want around anymore
That push and shove and won't bend to your will
I'll keep them still



Archives
May 2004
June 2004
July 2004
August 2004
September 2004
October 2004
December 2004
January 2005
February 2005
March 2005
April 2005
May 2005
June 2005
July 2005
August 2005
September 2005
October 2005
November 2005
December 2005
January 2006
February 2006
March 2006
April 2006
May 2006
June 2006
July 2006
August 2006
September 2006
October 2006
November 2006
December 2006
January 2007
February 2007
March 2007
April 2007
March 2008
May 2008

Powered by

Sykopanther - 2001 All rights reserved

Friday, February 25, 2005

mr. mime, it's not funny.

i sat beside an indian woman today. her scent wafted into me like sweet tendrils of dream clouds. i love the smell of the indians -eastern indian-. like the smell of bare skin grazing soft soil. of forgotten flowers and oil that gushes out like a waterfall from between a giant's yellow teeth.
it took me back to yesterday's completely contrasting smells. a chinese man was beside me smelling like fresh hot urine. it served as a smelling salt as i tried to slip into a different state of consciousness. one that allows me to sit on a hill with my knees drawn up, watching Kirpal Singh and Hana hold hands like two continents colliding, smashing and all that are left are seeds and debris falling slowly like snowflakes. i hate nations.
everytime i tried to pull away, the man's smell dug deep into my nose and tugged my mind back.

like an ignorant mime who doesn't fully comprehend what he's pulling or pushing at. it was frustrating. which one of us is blind i wonder.





Posted by NHJ 2/25/2005 06:51:00 pm