You, February Eleventh: Tired of listening to sycophantic pontifications, love-making with non-entities, hypothetical, "what-if, what if." Are you more content sitting alone in a theatre knowing that everything you touch will cower under your palm, or do you prefer to be self-conscious, a lot of laughing heads floating around, vomiting advices, warm because there are so many bodies in the room? Self-deprecation is not charming; let us not delude ourselves. It is loathsome and annoying, if you want the truth. The honest brilliance, that Chomsky masterpiece (unprecedented synaptic lapses), the thing which shocks, festers writhing guilt, the entire "why-the-hell-do-I-philosophize-to-a-cutter-goddamit?" mentality, a menagerie of doubt, torment, tracing your finger across history, discovering the poignant beauty of it all--yes, and yes it is so simple: tissue paper. Pastel pink. Are you looking through her?

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Comments

  • MadameSosostris said on Aug 03, 2006....
    Oh, you fuzzy-naveled temptress, you! Here you've gone and gotten a worn-out old fortune-teller all hot and bothered. Do tell me more, you little hot-water Mama, make me writhe in syntactic ecstasy. I'm watching you, Fiona. And I know everything about you. Beware.
  • Ajinia said on Aug 04, 2006....
    Kandeva, In all of your pieces that you have posted so far, I almost feel as if they are meant to be performance pieces. They flow so wonderfully and are so full of life & passion that I can see them being spoken on a blackened stage, lit only where where sit on a stool, reciting them. Wonderful!
  • Ajinia said on Aug 04, 2006....
    That was supposed to read, [i] lit only where you sit on a stool [/i]
  • MadameSosostris said on Aug 04, 2006....
    What a pretty, pretty sentiment dear Ajinia. But do you, oh great appreciator of deliciously decanted poesy, know what our great poet means? Enlighten us, please, we are so famished for some depth, some frission, some volcanic effusions. But forgive me, I am old, ancient as Arabia, in fact, with withered dugs and bones that crackle and rattle when I walk. But my memory! Oh, if you could only see inside my head, what visions of past glories, rapturous delights, both of the mind and body, you should see! But alas, I am just an old fortune-teller living on borrowed time. Yet I still see the future, still lie awake at night gnawed by fortune's rapacious appetite for eating away the entirety of my soul before she sees fit to chew me up and spit me back out, but not in your time, no, oh no, I will fight that as I once fought mighty Achilles on the ramparts of Troy (yes, there is such a thing as reincarnation, dearies, whether you will deign to admit it or not!). Yours is a time of panderers, sophists, whiners and bores and I would rather lie supine, my bag of tricks and sack of bones rotting in peaceful nether than cohort, vibrating with lushness and light amidst the squalor of nothingness. Oh well, dearies, til next time!
  • Ajinia said on Aug 04, 2006....
    Ah, but don't you know that's the beauty of poetry? The artist may mean one thing when s/he writes it, but the reader will get out of it what s/he needs or wants. :) Each reader will see something different in the same piece of poetry - at least if it is as well written as Kandeva's is.
  • MadameSosostris said on Aug 04, 2006....
    Dearest Ajinia, flowering hedgerow that you are amongst that flotsamic weeds of mundane reality, bless you! Kandeva is, indeed, a rarity.
  • hunter_boyce_chandler said on Aug 05, 2006....
    As usual I am in awe of you

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