Return of Birdman

Should I decipher the codex of my mutable fragical mind, turning stones and tricks for reason divine? Finding a wooden boy in the mire and living to aspire, I consummate the concubines in deft little spires get a whiff and a huff of Heff empire.

Is it cold shoulder or chips raining down, perpetual frown jousts with cutesy clown, the takeover reup taking longer now. Feigning jealousy and longing when envious of pep, flipping over heels but no follow script. My youth is reversion confirming aversion, settle in old man britches  for the calmness. Too angered now, patience eroding lacklustre doldrums, days span months in grey pattern baldness. But no one fault is this. Life goes according and a-courting, kiss the wrinkly hands of fate. Manos, Thanos, please save the canon.

Panty-twisted nerds calling reckless, dickless, witless, place women on bitchlist. Don’t get it twisted, I’ve been on the shitlist, been bitchy and mean and Dickensian friendless. I fathomed a dark world and supped on the hate, sucked the teat of bitterness and cursed all the regulars. All them average complaining about taxes, health scares and hurt back and I stay mute and listless. Can’t talk about demons, the heathens, the dirty brain cretins. Save the chat for professionals who throw around medicines, the little pill replicants molding me to cloning fit. Execute Plan B throw away the personal, dilute the obsessional, cut out my devils. Horny rimmed glass kooks black and tan mongrels. Biting on my back fat, monkey got some company. So far I run and lose my way and now I’m back at starting race and I forget who I displaced my personalities changing face.

Who who who am I? I am the Birdman, the ticky tacky owlman looking over shoulders to see who’s closer. Trust the webby strangers, the online pathos, anonymously rambling to nighttime meandering. Repeat all the negatives, capture light from happy peers, p2p the positive accentuate the imperative. Now I forget what I say and I’m living my way. Crushed and lazy dull haze nix the drugs and binging, no more narcotic suite, trying health but none replete. Chalk up bad days to experience but no one hear the truth of this, tight lips keep aship run aground on future space when it matters not a bit.

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One-eyed Kings

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I guess I have never really written about or talked about my creation of myself and the rejection of my parents, or at least their flaws I could not stand in younger days. I remember my older sister complained about a guy from online who was in his forties having a sexuality crisis and going on about being bisexual, on a first date no less. I usually enjoy the cluelessness of men and the hilarious methods and stratagems they use to woo women, it’s a real guilty pleasure and makes single bar hopping fun. But now I relay and think back on things as I read about other characters relations with relations and what they do and separate themselves from with their parents.

I had heard so much about my father’s flaws and errors from the mummy and collected what I knew of hers. My father was bad with money and business, a little too trusting of the wrong people and spend spend with the pocket linings because of growing up poor. I tried not to be like that, that wisp of a gambling addiction he had, roughly equivalent. I was good at saving, building up my account, moving money to different accounts to yield more interest without going full into the stocks and bonds and trusting a broker. I saved enough to bust up on my downhill spree of debauchery and vice and finding myself among the bullshit and asshole behaviour, a regular movement.

As I think of my mother and what she was often like I wonder at the choice of women I made and fell for. Mom had a bunch of great qualities and kept the family intact like a trooper but hard at times, angry, negative, the yelly type. I fell for the soft women, the nice soothing voices, the sympathetic kindness and warmth that exuded out from them, I was addicted to their energy, the vibe man. Now I wonder if I am a bit of a cliche, the Indian with the overprotective mother who has to bite his tongue and maybe goes a little gay because of her overbearing nature and slightly bad taste for women. The harshness of her growing pains, the sharp Scorpion tongue lingering belligerently in my skull.

Experience, like with everyone else, has done a number on me and my worldview and connections to these people in front of me. Too many trust issues with men and especially women. Much sensitivity and bouts of jealousy and insecurity. Every one talkie talkie behind backie, call me wacky crazy sexy coolie. I watch the pretty ones and happy ones, lonely ones slink along the blue scholar avenue, weird ones fumble and mumble like I do. Go from woman admirer to bisexual confusion to asexual seclusion. I am my own, I am lone, I like my quiet and peaceful home and I can love what is right now, my approximation of love.

I’ve settled enough but I believe in life examined, always questions, always a secret to the self or repression, subconscious lying for sparing kindness. What do I hide from myself? Will mindful awareness and probing do justice like those weed nights of painful horrible flashbacks pulsing the strobe lights of memory? Is the rave era gone and now I shall drift along the current of chillout and new age? I am okay with my new medium settings. Cautious and trying reserved, gossipy  and bitchy at intervals, funwhore and ribald party animal at dusk. These double natures need time to meld and coagulate into a rounded individual capable of handling the strain and push and pull of twin egos rushing to bask in the limelight, seeing green at each other and playing pong with the fluttery spindly psyche. The wild child confusion boy angelic demon persona non grata photo bombing and sneaking into the party. Maybe it’s wiser not to pinpoint a thing, yourself. Accept ignorance and remain faithful to these principles you grew from seedlings, this value daisy chain bursting for the sun and willing you to get right, do the right thing.

Right now we do what we think is best but never knowing the best. We are all one-eyed kings seeking depth perception and clarity. I think I follow, I go against and reject, I survive and go through motions at the periphery. Life is beautiful a friend of mine says. Life is weird and quixotic to me but I remain somewhat interested. Amid the clatter and waves and turbulence of our species’ clashes and clans there is that nice spot, a little nook or alcove to hushabye theses savage times and salvage time. Again with time, with memories, with rumination. Senility assault me now.