If only Eve ate BlackBerry instead of Apple; this Android would have not been born.
Now men roam these streets; Steve looking for Jobs, but cannot find any. Sony Erics’son has gone Microsoft from the never ending hustle. I Nvidia Vertu. You Nokia, you knock there, nothing forthcoming. As far as Alcatel, they think we are not Sharp.
With no luck I came home
To the smell of a fart
The air-tease alert of this empty hen
And the smell of the air tells me
There is no glow back home
Someone has eaten all the golden eggs.
Huawei to go through all these?
One day, these would all be over. We shall live beyond crystal gates singing Samsung with Panasonic tunes. Then, I swear to you Adam, when I Mitsubishi would think a Motorola over after the beating she would receive.
For now, I’d be content with my current hustle
Selling jeans sized LG from HTCs
Selling LG jeans from eight to six.
“Telecoms” © Yaasky, 2016
We shall overcome
When brothers drop their arms
And peace permeates the air
When all minds can be calm
We have overcome
You cannot feign spirit by its
Xtremities. Since this is
What perception easily
Verifies, it’s all we can
Understand. But Spirit on
The other hand falls under
Similar principles as
Rhetorical truths; truths which
Quips don’t teach in full. You must
Ponder the fundamentals
Of Spirit without all these
Nonsense Spirit has become —
Making it hard to grasp. I
Look at these extremities
Keenly and see nothing but
Jargon; a failed attempt to
Isolate Spirit into
Highs and lows. Oh! But all that
Grows, gives, and begets comes but
From Spirit whole; Spirit in
Entirety. Zach, my boy,
Don’t fathom extremities.
Come closer to the very
Beginning …of each line where
Alphabets run bottom-up.
The morning came back
And woke the night up
For work. — Time? — 6am.
It was time for the night
To report for the chore.
And drove the
Darkness to work.
Mornings have become
The talisman which purges
Darkness into the hearts of men.
On my way to twenty-two
A land filled with horror and big books
I stumbled down the forest’s path
My shoes, them two, got lost in the sand
And lost they did remain
Abandoning what made
Feet strong, and paths with bumps
On my way to thirty-three
Spirits I see in misty glee
Alas! My foddered soul can be free
“Spirit, spirit. Precursor to man.
How can I, my soul, unhand?”
“Unhand!?”, they said, “Unhand
Really!? Boy — find your feet
There is “the thing”, of which I am an epiphenomenon. You are an outsider; and my circumstantial friend, as we both are outside “the thing”. Our friendship is directed: yours towards me and mine towards you. And with this direction, you force me into the thing while I force you out of this thing. That’s the erroneous representation of love, you see. We have come to like this…. This representation of “could be” as fantasy. The same we have unfortunately come to embrace in our many human cultures. And in order to keep you, I must occasionally forget the fact that I am from this thing (as much as, in a broader sense, you also are) and dance with you the contemporary dance of push and pull, of dig and fill, the grave dance for forgetting oneself to embrace another… the seemingly morbid dance of replacing oneself. The sacred scare!
But when oneself has been redefined as myself in yourself, when your hair grows from my follicles and your vision comes form my very own human oculus, when my thoughts are articulated by your speech and my path walked by your feet… Then comes the realization that you also have a thing to which I am an outsider. And my friendship towards you has removed you from yours, as you removed me from mine. You fell into this error to learn
the our mistake. This is not the first time your feet have been enslaved to this tune. Fascinating!
p.s. Try reading this again. But this time, replace the “I”s with the you”s and the “you”s with the “I”s. Keep doing this till the personification vanishes from your mind.