An intern physician, working in a haunted hospital in an empty city, in Pakistan. Interests include mathematics, photography, late night television and post-rock. |
Favourite genre of music: Progressive Metal, Post-rock, Trip-hop
NamesNames by batousaijin
An isolated, winding gimbal floats along
The medium between my lips and your ears—
A tidy pouch
That clutches every thingness in a beaker
And distills it to comprehension—bare minimum,
Square root of Singularity,
Strong like a newborn's headbutt,
As typical as José or Steve, Haruko or Kristin(a).
Ripe, merciless overcoats of crushed purple velvet
Find their way to me
In a bargain-priced thrift store.
They carry faces, names.
Intricate carvings—stones, shells—set in relief on
Technology as old as pants—buttons, Cameos.
Style ŕ la mode.
Cameo is a nice name for a girl.
Annelise Tomoē is what I'll name my daughter,
If I have one.
She already will be and will have been mostly American—
The "new" American—Part French Canadian, Part Mexican,
Part Amer-Indian, Cajun, Japaneezian Asian,
Caucasian (slash) Aryan.
Almost any 'un can make a contribution,
And has, or is about to.
A Generic Horror PoemFather, I spoke with a knot in my tongue, Why do we hide and run?A Generic Horror Poem by BlueSpartanOfVGC
Father was despondent in look, but cheerful in speech, We conceal ourselves so there is no end for us to meet.
But what of mother and sister; we left them behind.
We had to my child, for they had lost their minds.
The skies roared as winds churned raucously. The brightest star in the days sky had become the darkest dot in our eyes. There were no others on the empty street; just my father and I, our faces bleak.
Why must we move, when theres nowhere to go? Cant we stay, and watch all else flow?
No my son, we cannot halt our pace. As long as we stand, it is our scents that they trace.
There were tall buildings all around; they blocked the tenacious screams and shouts, leaving only my father and I to walk about.
What if they find us as we walk this trail?