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  • illicit_skunk 18w

    self talk after pot brownies

    September 15, 2021
    two hours and four minutes past noon

    I was never written about.
    never the muse
    but the possessor of a mind so obtuse
    that I wrote all the obsession out of me
    until there was none left.
    layers of iron laden water
    stood still in my basement,
    in the buckets and the washbasins
    creating an obscene tune of utter stagnancy.
    but I had to return
    leaving the momentary escape behind
    to scrape the stubborn rust stains
    off the wet floor.

    this beginning tastes different
    and I have a delta attached
    to the left of my soul;
    and to whatever is left of this soul.
    I was led on and on to dead ends
    only to breakthrough and make way;
    to sit back and breathe in solace.
    with my perspective, everything has changed.
    I'm the strongest when alone
    with the fresh mountain air speeding past
    and thrashing against my face;
    peeling off all the masks that I've ever worn.
    there's something rough and fierce
    about honesty and tenderness;
    about loving with all your heart
    and bending till you break.
    but I choose to channelize that love towards myself
    because I've seen myself standing alone
    against the worst of times
    when people were too busy
    hurting, blaming and accusing me;
    when they were too busy
    drowning shoulder deep in self pity
    and using it as an excuse
    to do what they did.
    but i have forgiven myself
    and everyone I've come across.
    I've chosen to walk out of the dark places.
    I'm not looking for love.
    for, if it's there, it'll find it's way to me.
    I refuse to be consumed by trivialities.

    I'm waiting on miracles
    and I believe in magic
    and the fact that smiles heal us.
    I'm ready for massive changes,
    prepared to combat any darkness that stands in my way.
    I have never been written about
    but will soon be -
    in history and in the minds of masses
    who would look up to me
    and say, "if she could, I can too."

    ©illicit_skunk

  • illicit_skunk 21w

    yours alone

    ~there's such a sense of strength in fighting your toughest battles alone, in going through the lowest of your lows -alone. there's immense pain and that is what makes you strong~

    did you fight with hope on your mind
    or did you drag through
    despite the dying light?
    knowing you're speeding towards a dead end
    but falling apart isn't an option;
    did you have a shoulder to lean on
    when your knees gave way
    and you couldn't go on?
    did you fight with hope on your mind?

    was there love
    when you needed it the most?
    where was the sun
    when you were scared of the ghosts?
    was there a friend,
    was there a hand to hold
    or did you come down crashing all the way
    all alone?
    did you stay up nights,
    did your cries turn to roars?
    how wounded were you
    when you decided to soar-
    high,
    towards the blue sky?
    you're coming alive now.
    you were always meant to.

    did you go on
    when they shut you out?
    did you want to set yourself apart from the crowd?
    did the pain make you want to scream out loud
    -when you couldn't?

    did you fight with hope on your mind?
    or did you drag through
    despite the dying light?
    take a deep breath,
    you made it out alive.
    show me that big smile,
    your soul's beaming;
    your next battle will again be yours
    and yours alone to fight-
    so kick it in the balls
    it ain't fight or flight;
    it's fright and fight
    and then the striking sight
    of a victory.

    ©illicit_skunk

  • illicit_skunk 21w

    cuisses d'argent
    [silver thighs]


    to solder silver rings that hold uncut rocks
    as we sit by a gushing river
    trying to scream songs louder than it's roar
    - I've wanted to do that for a while now.
    the grass is soft, so is your smile.
    where do you get your tenderness from?
    a collective chant of hymns rings in the air
    and I grow fonder of the mountains.
    my heart is tired
    but you bring good to this Russian roulette of a life.
    you don't write verses
    but you make them with me -
    so, I'll write for the both of us.
    you let me own you,
    sit you down and consume you
    like the murk consumes a flickering flame.

    there is a lot of damage
    and silver ores
    but I'll be tearing my lungs apart
    and I'll be laughing.
    my obscure vulnerability
    smells like the fresh flesh of aloe vera -
    looks funny when you rub it on your jaws
    and render me transparent.
    I won't perish without you;
    I have been balancing my existence
    on these cuisses fortes for nineteen years
    but you're allowed to squeeze them like plushies
    and have the last laugh
    as long as you can afford to keep the tinted glasses on my nose.

    ©illicit_skunk

  • illicit_skunk 23w

    even on your judgement day, my gates won't close on you

    there is rage and a stinging ache that runs from the back of my neck, down my right shoulder. the sink is clogged with dog hair and the water never stops dripping. the obsidian is calling in something uncalled for and my room is brimming with moths and flies. i stayed up another night to make sure all of them were dead. my life has always been very strange - every phase exhibiting a wide array of disasters; every take at escape, a damp squib. so i slap myself against the hard ground like a fish out of water. there are cysts in my roots and my scales are threshed like that of a cob each time i give in to the notional idea of fidelity. like all my mannerisms, my way of loving is absurdly outdated. it dissolves all my rage and in the next moment it is as if you never did me wrong - another way of going easy on my own conscience.

    ©illicit_skunk

  • illicit_skunk 23w

    blue screen of death

    I am tired. I am sick. I am sad. I want to cry but tears won't come and this has been the case for a very very long time - though I wish there was a way out, my mind likes to believe that suffering has it's purpose  - this only cultivates hope - I do not want hope - it's like an anaesthetic which does not stop you from dying, it just does not let you feel like you're dying - but you're dying anyway - I mean, I am dying anyway. death would be a better alternative than this conscious negligence of the fact I am decomposing. I can be indifferent to things - I can be stoic or nihilistic or even naively positive but that doesn't change a thing. all these people I know, they'll be some history dust and skull and bones and no one knows where their most prized belongings will go. the possibility of love has been shot to shit - what difference would it have made anyway - I dwell in a suburban rathole and the entities it houses are ghoulish. you could feel a bunch of minus signs prick your face like needles once you step into the energy field of this place. I live with those sticking on my face and my flesh dangles out at places from my cheeks but you can't see it because only I can. utensils subtly clinker in the kitchen on a rainy afternoon and the dog shivers to shit when it thunders as I hope to make a mark in this world by shuffling and adjusting a few wrappers as they rustle into the quietness of a smug afternoon - I can hear myself breathe and a thudding like that of muffled drums inside my chest - there's a housefly which Bengalis usually refer to as a bee - it's buzzing the shit out near my ears as if daring my human ass into a combat - i am going to ignore the fact that I feel like crawling on the floor that hasn't been swept or mopped for days because I can barely manage to collect myself and do at least one chore a day. I am lazy says she. I will not listen to her. She does not understand. I do not understand her. a relationship built on mutual indifference to each other's rotting and collapsing psyches. I would like to live a little longer and watch a few more movies - I used to dream of making a few someday - I am not even 20 - xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx - I'll have a glass of milk - latest update: it has turned sour -  xxxxxx

    ©illicit_skunk

  • illicit_skunk 24w

    blue submarine

    6th August, 2021
    1 hour and 13 minutes past midnight

    there's a rapid time lapse
    i am not sad anymore
    i do get angry at times. very angry.
    it burns the little goodness that's left within me
    am i to control all human impulses?
    you say anger is inhuman
    now, is it?

    there's a blue submarine
    attempting to sit like melting ice
    on my temper
    i haven't been placid for a while
    but today i came across a mutt
    and it made me smile
    i have brought it home
    there's nothing that it can be fed with
    and ego won't do any good
    so it sits with a hungry look in its eyes
    one can say it's famished
    but it has a human now
    so there's a glint of hope
    the mutt is drooling
    it trusts me

    i can't take take such a responsibility
    the smile on my lips has to leave
    i will be angry for a little while
    then i shall be sad again

    ©illicit_skunk

  • illicit_skunk 25w

    / I DON'T WANT TO MAKE SENSE /

    a yellow submarine

    hit my fucking forehead

    and bruised it

    and I was asked not to cry

    why

    because no

    i'll call the yellow submarine

    keep shoving it in

    until it has demolished my insides

    i will dine with it

    dinner's on me

    submarine wants to eat me

    eat

    and drool

    eat until you're out of breath

    submarine thrown

    with all it's yellow

    out of the window

    rises like the dead

    blind widow

    is that yellow shit's way back to me

    kill

    not allowed

    not permissible

    why

    because no

    love

    I've only shown

    love

    have I ever known?

    no

    why

    just because.


    yellow submarines are out there

    in the streets

    inside the birthgiver's sheets

    and the other one's dead


    are you a submarine?

    you look like a boat

    will you keep me afloat?

    no?

    why?

    oh, because you don't want to.

    understandable.


    where are you?

    away

    three yards away

    am i coming off as needy?

    do you find that repelling?

    do i look like i give a fuck?

    i used to

    now?

    fuck you


    the yellow submarine's approaching

    why the sirens?

    i should sleep

    eat paper

    and a banana

    shit! they've even sexualized the fruit


    ©illicit_skunk

  • illicit_skunk 28w

    I recommend playing the soundtrack mentioned in this piece while you read it :)

    Read More

    fling

    12th July, 2021
    5:33 p.m.

    to the one who receives this letter,

    there is this little town
    submerged somewhere in haze of the past
    and there we are
    just you and i
    watching people
    doing all sorts of things
    that people do
    it is a friday evening
    and someone is playing on a piano nearby
    the end title track by Clint Eastwood from the movie Changeling (2008)
    the sky is a weird shade of dark blue
    telling me i am living a dream
    telling me all of this
    is too good to be true
    but then there's you
    walking up to the pianist
    asking him if you could play the instrument for a while
    he can't hear you
    because he is stuck in another time
    and the track continues
    there is a car being chased
    and there are elevators of the old kind
    flying around in space
    everything is oddly brown
    the whispers from the crowd
    sound static
    an unfamiliar serenity
    pats the back of my mind
    everything will be fine
    everything will be fine
    everything will be fine

    the moments slip away
    so do the windscreens
    of the cafes and bars
    no one cares enough when they crash
    the men and the women
    they smoke cigarettes as they walk together
    or walk away
    you and me
    we smile
    for six minutes and seventeen seconds
    our jaws start to ache
    and then fall away
    we stand under the flickering light of the lamp post
    jawless
    it is suffocating to wear masks
    specifically if they are a misfit
    so we fling ours in the air
    and start to run in opposite directions
    we stop and look back
    one last glance
    we don't know if either of us is smiling
    both of us jawless
    the track playing in the background fades
    we turn our backs again
    and continue on our separate ways

    - me

    ©illicit_skunk

  • illicit_skunk 29w

    a not so Ryan Gosling movie

    how about we smell a little like each other?

    it stinks now;
    bad blood gone worse -
    verse -
    your verses don't mean anything;
    neither do mine.
    alone in a lift,
    just the two of us,
    a city of stars
    and you keep kicking my face
    until its pulped.

    fine,
    we aren't meant to be;
    but what's this
    that I now see?
    a home in the mountains,
    you and me;
    the pre-defined concept
    of the days to come
    in absolute jeopardy.

    you don't see
    you don't see
    you don't see

    so you think I don't pay attention
    to every detail
    of the neatly embroidered warmers.
    the sheep, the women
    and the farmers
    (in the valley)
    look upto us
    for bedtime stories -
    on love that could never be.

    did you notice the rain
    washing us away?
    a little more
    each time, everyday.
    and i am sorry
    for having slow-poisoned
    a man like you -
    who waits for death in a cab
    with a ticking clock, a typewriter and a tube of glue.

    ©illicit_skunk

  • illicit_skunk 29w

    jam on the toast

    'who you have
    at end of the day,
    the <it's just a> phase
    or a lifetime <of having continuously
    slipped on banana peels>
    - is yourself.
    this piece of information is well seated
    at the back of our minds
    but hardly comes into play
    during trying times.
    the trick to 'doing justice to your higher self'
    and resetting your tracks
    lies in the conditioning of your subconscious
    to upgrade your survival skills.'

    written above, is a prelude
    to the mental health advice
    that i keep spreading like jam
    over people like me -
    who've been toasted well by life
    and by the daily internal strife.
    the key to the materialisation
    of imagined circumstances
    is - to latch on to the after taste
    of something you haven't yet got a taste of.

    72 hours
    without a wink of sleep
    makes you see things
    that don't exist -
    but you are delusional anyway
    so why not turn a blind eye
    to the sandcastle that your mental health is
    and attempt to make the world
    slightly better for others.

    hope this piece finds you
    in a tranquil mental state,
    if not -
    all i can be is sorry.

    ©illicit_skunk