Clarity of Expression: Non-Fiction exercise deux

You Are My Center, when I spin away…
Love songs, Romance in movies and books, they do not speak to me nor do I find any remnants of myself within their concepts and depictions.

Hugs and Kisses, The arguments and make-ups, a carnival of emotions both ironic and cryptic without ever coming to any kind of conclusion unless for some inexplicable reason you find that rare old couple; they fit like a glove, they live having developing their own tailored “coping mechanisms”
For everybody else I see a merry-go-round of hypocrisy and force-fed hope
Marriages and weddings with the same script but ever changing characters.

‘Blame it on my Aspergers,’ I think to myself.

And it’s alright.
That I don’t get it, that I do not care for the Wheel of Romance.

But it would be great if somebody could explain what it’s all about!


She Was an Ernest Person

Part of POSTMODERN Zeitschrifte collection ©2015 by Asperganoid


She, alive or dead, loves her kids.

She, dead or alive, wants to live.


You want me to be superhuman

-i never said

The way you look at me, the way your face turns when I do something human

-you’re imagining things

I blow my nose and you tense up, you see the contents of my drawer and you act like some juvenile from the movies. This is real life and I’m a human being same as you

-yea well…

Don’t ‘never mind’ me. Are we two grown-ups in this relationship or is this a movie with cameras and no end to your imagined action?

-i don’t think I can do this

And most things too. Enjoy your starring role.

A coin dropped in The packed Kraft Café and everybody continued where they left off when he walked out the door.
She swiped her newspaper and put on her reading glasses, sipping on some coco-Kaffeesahne

Rigid Hand To Crooked Heart

Loved myself once.
Now lines have taken over my face.
The, rotting away of time, almost tangible.
I can’t stand to be around any youth with their enthusiasm and their ignorance of what’s to come.
I know too well; sometimes I wake up and I smell it.
Strong stench of fate; its ebony hand reaching out, stroking my hollow cheek.
Was in love with myself. Didn’t do me any good.

Excuse my convolutions

(Inspired by a positive blog which I shan’t name for my negativities may infect its remedies.) – thank you to that blog author.

Love fell from nigh
Gagged out more love
Stumbled over lesser love
Love like birthday rose
Love like romantic philosophies
Love broke these bones
Infected deficit with love
Adjacent and unknowable; love
Microscopic and scientific; love
revolutionary, Chemical, singing love.


We’re all a
little weird. And life is a little
weird. And when we find someone
whose weirdness is compatible
with ours, we join up with them
and fall into mutually satisfying
weirdness—and call it love—true

– Robert Fulghum