Damn it, it’s very late here . . . it’s actually morning but Insomnia beat me to it.
Actually it’s not really Insomnia . . . this is just a pretext . . . it’s actually words that have been waiting to be birthed at Sunrise . . .
My eyes are wide open . . . I happen to sweat the not so small stuff . . . that kind of keeps me awake, alert . . . my poor body is probably paying the price . . . but then it would pay the price anyway . . .
You see, my female body is a nothing . . .
Texts and discourses wrote themselves on its well guarded virgin pages . . . everyone out there told me what my body is, or should be . . . size, height, weight, contours, circumference, concave, convex . . . hidden or covered, clothed or naked . . . spread out or tightly held . . . it’s all been an injunction, the famous word . . . that word, that verb, and God was the word and maybe God is in my body . . . and maybe that God does not want to go to sleep . . . maybe that God in that form, has something to tell you . . . maybe. . . .
It may not sound right. .surely God can’t be a female insomniac . . . surely if God is anything it would be the naked thinking Rodin, the one still trying to figure it out . . . deep thoughts . . . very deep thoughts . . . deep thoughts that got us nowhere . . . was it a case of sheer mental masturbation ? Men are so good at that—mental masturbation. Men are so good at everything they do . . . aren’t they?
A collective wanking experience . . . dutifully named “civilization.” I sort of wondered about civility . . . you know some off shoot of civilization . . . I found tidbits of it. .scattered here and there . . . a female necklace with no owner . . .
Females abdicated long ago . . . they did . . . when you buried them alive in hot sands and offered them as sacrifices to your hungry god . . . later on you replaced his bulimia with yours and kept adding meat trophies to your list . . .
And meat, plenty of it, even for the best of vegetarian tastes . . . meat it is . . . meat is shall be . . . cannibals of the first order . . . digging rotting teeth into flesh . . . and the survivors from the cannibal’s feast perpetrated your tradition. . . . they tasted the flesh before offering it to you . . . who is better suited to taste the feminine than the female itself ?!
Thus you engaged in the orgy . . . like primates . . . and primates you have remained . . .
Thumping, jumping and scratching your heads. . . .
Maybe, after all, I am a zoologist, a wide awake zoologist hoping to find some missing link . . .
RSS
Eyes wide open . . .
Posted on March 27, 2012 by Layla Anwar
Damn it, it’s very late here . . . it’s actually morning but Insomnia beat me to it.
Actually it’s not really Insomnia . . . this is just a pretext . . . it’s actually words that have been waiting to be birthed at Sunrise . . .
My eyes are wide open . . . I happen to sweat the not so small stuff . . . that kind of keeps me awake, alert . . . my poor body is probably paying the price . . . but then it would pay the price anyway . . .
You see, my female body is a nothing . . .
Texts and discourses wrote themselves on its well guarded virgin pages . . . everyone out there told me what my body is, or should be . . . size, height, weight, contours, circumference, concave, convex . . . hidden or covered, clothed or naked . . . spread out or tightly held . . . it’s all been an injunction, the famous word . . . that word, that verb, and God was the word and maybe God is in my body . . . and maybe that God does not want to go to sleep . . . maybe that God in that form, has something to tell you . . . maybe. . . .
It may not sound right. .surely God can’t be a female insomniac . . . surely if God is anything it would be the naked thinking Rodin, the one still trying to figure it out . . . deep thoughts . . . very deep thoughts . . . deep thoughts that got us nowhere . . . was it a case of sheer mental masturbation ? Men are so good at that—mental masturbation. Men are so good at everything they do . . . aren’t they?
A collective wanking experience . . . dutifully named “civilization.” I sort of wondered about civility . . . you know some off shoot of civilization . . . I found tidbits of it. .scattered here and there . . . a female necklace with no owner . . .
Females abdicated long ago . . . they did . . . when you buried them alive in hot sands and offered them as sacrifices to your hungry god . . . later on you replaced his bulimia with yours and kept adding meat trophies to your list . . .
And meat, plenty of it, even for the best of vegetarian tastes . . . meat it is . . . meat is shall be . . . cannibals of the first order . . . digging rotting teeth into flesh . . . and the survivors from the cannibal’s feast perpetrated your tradition. . . . they tasted the flesh before offering it to you . . . who is better suited to taste the feminine than the female itself ?!
Thus you engaged in the orgy . . . like primates . . . and primates you have remained . . .
Thumping, jumping and scratching your heads. . . .
Maybe, after all, I am a zoologist, a wide awake zoologist hoping to find some missing link . . .
Copyright © 2012 Layla Anwar
Layla Anwar’s blog is An Arab Woman Blues—Reflections in a sealed bottle where this was first pubished.