Lost in Lassitude

Almost just got home from training and my eyes are slowly turning into sodden carpets. Not that I cry a lot, but due to lack of sleep.
Each day, I end up going home at past nine in the evening. Not that I’m complaining. I’m having lots of fun, honestly. Do I even have to tell you why?

I debate.

I log in the messenger with no one but myself to chat with. Everybody’s dozing off to Neverland, while I’m here typing down words of lethargy.
I feel like I have this unrequited need for sleep. I know it sounds idiotic, but forgive me, I’m a bit groggy right now.

***
I’m back to being whip, by the way. I’m still in the same team, only, Krista and I exchanged speaker roles. I feel pleased. I’m more passionate as a third speaker, in a devilish way of course.
But I still hail Krista’s take on the issue analysis bit.

Okay, enough about that.

***
I finally had the chance to print poems of Amalin and other poets in the Lost Generation. Without a doubt, I didn’t fritter away with ink, see their works are fabulous. Only, you hardly find people who appreciate those kinds of literature. Good thing most of the people in CSTP are mad about those imageries.

As promised, here’s one I can’t seem to get out of my mind lately. It’s by a poet whose pseudonym is givemehistory. Anyone who knows what camina conmigo means may freely disturb me at any time.

chemic

by lamplight I write letters to myself,
describing the feel of rough loving
splinters etched along my spine, or
lost umbrella spokes lining the insides
of my bones, flea-ridden heart creaking
at the memory of you two months ago,
cutting your tongue on the edge
of an envelope containing a love letter.

I learned the trick from you:
when you would run butterfly touches
over bulletholes, sighing as linen
grazed your eyelashes and murmuring
sobriquets into soft surfaces -
flannel / skin / green grass and
kissing the corpses of moths that
died from ink poisoning during the night.

camina conmigo, you whispered,
and smiled when I imitated those
fairest of elegies and fluttered,
shadowy paradoxical, into your light.
those cunning words lost themselves
in the creases of my elbows and
evaporated into the air I breathe,
and like a child underwater I can only
exhale, giving you away with each
syllable tossed to the paper, aflame;

saint, sinner, my very own undertaker:
(the moths churn steadily in the night,
beating their wings against the undried
ink that stain the tips of their freedom)
and I fall like a star into your grave.

See what I mean? Another one of those good shits, ain't it? Heehee.

***
I'll be having an interview with TOMCAT tomorrow, by the way. Ermm, something to do with the Crossfire competition. It's more of a talkshow actually.

Yikes. Show business!
Somebody kill me before I get exploited.
Haha. Nah. Kidding.
You just need to act timid at times to avoid too much blabbering.

Take it from my indifference.