"Down and Out with Lady Luck in a Casino", "In My Backyard", "Blunt", "Just saying", "Still life, a random day", "I Learned It From a Song" by Kamki
- Feb 22
- 4 min read
Down and Out with Lady Luck in a Casino
Last chip
She is both faithful
And unfaithful
Until proven otherwise.
Which risk do you take?
Trust her and be wrong,
Or doubt her and lose something real?
In the end, the gamble,
Winning—Keeping,
Is about what happens if you lose...
What loss can you bear;
Everything,
Or everything?
In My Backyard
When a frog realises there’s a world outside the well, it instantly separates itself from the crowd. The crowd only starts looking at it weird when it croaks about what it has seen.
And here you are, not only croaking but attempting the climb.
Of course nobody relates. But fuck it. The point is getting out, not making them believe you can.
Blunt
A rational empiricist with an anti-dogmatic orientation.
Values logic over sentiment, observation over ideology.
Challenges collective delusion and pursues structural truth beneath social fashion.
Don’t ask for my opinion if you’ve already chosen your answer—
Because I will give mine.
Just saying
The worst kind of sin is Machiavellianism—not for the harm it does to others, but for
the desolate truth it reveals about the one who harbour’s it.
To cultivate the will to manipulate and control, to plot with cold precision, and yet fail
at it—does not make you less of a sinner.
It makes you worse.
A failure even in the realm of the damned,
A Penumbra of a shadow who can’t even execute the exploitation they’ve so carefully woven. A Joke in the darkness.
A loser, not absolved by mercy, but undone by their own incompetence.
Not cleansed of sin,
Just rendered incapable of it.
Still life, a random day
There is a crack on my screen.
It has been there for days, maybe weeks.
I cannot remember when it arrived.
I look up from my phone.
From the chair near the door
To the bed across the room.
The Starry Night, a cheap Amazon print,
Rests against the carved wooden headboard.
It sinks into a scatter of pillows and folded linens.
A plush toy lies on its side.
A metal bottle leans against an ashtray.
The bed carries all of it without complaint.
The power cuts out.
My battery blinks a warning.
This room is not connected to the inverter.
I stay upstairs anyway.
The electrician rewired something the wrong way.
Still, I keep writing.
If the words matter, maybe the lights will return.
They do.
Softly.
The room shifts.
The water bottle on the bed means
I have been thirsty.
The old aftertaste is familiar
From nights I slept dry and did not bother to fix it.
It feels like a small measure of progress
That I drink now.
The plush octopus I bought for my Lady
Sits with its face folded.
She loved it because it could show both moods.
Happy or sad, depending on how it was turned.
Now it is flat and unreadable.
I cannot tell which side it wants to be.
She is still with me.
Only distance keeps her away.
She would scold me if she saw it looking like this.
I am not sure how it happened.
Maybe I pressed it in my sleep.
Maybe I never noticed.
I could think about the crack on my screen,
Trace its beginning,
But the truth is simple.
I probably tripped.
The mundane collects itself.
The room continues breathing.
Life moves, quietly, whether I do or not.
I Learned It From a Song
Shoot me down, then soothe me with that soft little “sorry, honey” and expect me to wake up.
But I did wake up. I woke up hard. Reality stung clean through. Lies tasted sweet for a while, but sweetness spoils. It wears off. It shows its rot.
We fight, we make up, and I pretend it is repair. But underneath it sits this sly stack of stored poisons, all those quiet insults and hidden intentions you think I do not see. Trust is fragile. Once it cracks, it never sets right again.
Fix what? The issue? Not the issue. The pattern.
You are dependent on it. An addict of your own loosened values, a slattern for the chaos you create.
Mayhem. A loose cannon. A bruised woman who drifts emotionally, selfish and
crude.
A broken clock pretending it still keeps time. All talk, no movement. A rude truth
choking me until I cannot even pretend to reason with it. You can only delude.
“Sorry for messing up.” Messing up? No. These are not accidents. This is choice.
Shoot me down and whisper sorry again, and ask if I will wake up. Do you really need
clues?
Make up what? The ugly? It lives in the marrow. Ingrained.
We can fight, and we can make up, but you snapped the link in the chain. That link
was everything.
I have never been unhappier.
Thank you for showing me the peak of what I never want again.
I am not even sad. It was expected. I think I smelled the truth a long time ago.
It reeked.
Creativity, practice, identity.
Fuck.
P.S. Art, I am over you.
Yours,
Artist