It starts with the small cracks
pushes through the crevices, tiny ugly blobs, remnants
of unconscious sighs.
Tar-black and reeking
of discarded hope, it whimpers
snuggling into the wounds
like all the puppies you’ve lost as a child.
In moments of loneliness it whispers
Coaxes you to feed, to nourish yourself
From its dark, dreary milk and
You gnaw, half-hearted
Like you do at cold food
A day too old to eat, but too much of a waste to throw out.
It starts from within
Swirls of disappointment, internal chaos and black, black death
And before you know it, you are all topsy-turvy
Too mangled and ugly for anybody to save
Like a mouse hanging from cat jaws
Like a forlorn napkin, held by a single peg
Against a raging storm.
A careless stab that lands
Upon an open wound, you
Just would not let heal.
Smiling and calm, bury a knife deep in my belly
Pregnant with love, conceived for you.
The blade, ever so softly,
In teasing little tugs and jarring little pulls
Your words smooth and sleek, velvet gloved, jagged ends concealed, no one suspects
Till I rouse the goddess with my cries and then
I am to blame for my loudness,
My lack of ease.
Didn’t you know?
Love bleeds out, slowly, softly
A gentle whisper upon sleeping ears
Until it finally departs and leaves
A large gaping crater beneath?
You wouldn’t even know,
Everything you believe to be the ultimate ‘truth’
May not be the truth you see.
I am a catfish, larger than life, not
Without my scales and edges
And you prick me with pins, believing
This is love, wanting me to be
The goldfish that you would have me be.
Your fishbowl tightens around me
Like a noose, as I grow
And I grow and I grow and
Your fish bowl won’t fit me anymore.
What will you do? Release me to sea?
Or spear me through the heart
Letting me bleed to death in my sleep?
This is my dream
A caricaturized truth woven
In spiders’ web and
Pulverized veins, warm
And squirting, molded
With the flesh of the living, watered
In blood, kneaded
With reality, a dream
In the illusion of Life, sticky
Do you constitute as real, or are you
A figment of my imagination? Worse yet,
Am I a figment of yours?
I do not know and I doubt that I will ever find out
Does it matter anyway?
This is my delusion, this is what I chose,
Trapped in a hallway of mirrors,
Ensnared in hapless eternity, because
There hadn’t been a choice, there had never been.
I dictate your terms or you dictate mine
And it is my decision to accept or reject
Because it is my dream, or I
A figment of yours.
But as all dreams go, we cannot control the circumstances
The instances are inconsistencies that revel in deeper calamities
But I can choose to wake up too early and let the dream end
Dissipate, disassemble, disintegrate to crumbly little nothings
Before its time is due.
For I am but a single drop
In an immense filthy ocean
Of pollution, corruption, unscrupulous exploitation
I dream of emancipation
From this insipid, vapid satire in which
We eat, drink, fuck and fall away
Good byes are meant for healing,
For retrieving the tiny bits of self, scattered
Along the milky way that you built inside your head
Loving mirages, a lifetime’s work
Taking minutes to dismantle, the loosened bricks
That had crumbled over the years.
Goodbyes are meant to bleed they say
First in gushing torrents, then little streams
And then in sad trickles turning to drops
To dried canals along the cheeks.
Goodbyes are empty canisters
That you fill with little memory shards
Nasty little ‘could have been’s, those nagging ‘what if’s,
Seal with the possibilities of wasted years and bury
Deep, deep down in your backyard with little twigs of remembrance
As markers of what had been.
Goodbyes are pungent, like camphor
Lingering and sticky, just a whiff
Can paralyze with helplessness.
Goodbyes, those necessary evils, those ambiguous plots
Sudden death, like murder
Distant lightning without the thunder
Whispers without the tenderness
Punishment without reward
A dainty hope to kill in the womb,
A gentle touch to forget
And forgive, if you can.
I don’t want to count the stars,
And wonder at those glistening points
Nor wander through the untouched thicket, Pffft!
Who has time for all this!
I don’t ask for much. Never have.
Simply not enough time, nor patience
For self is the centre of it all.
Minutes fall around me, hours roll
Away, like pebbles
From the hands of a child
But do I dare whimper? Or shed a tear?
Thick skin as they say, like cow hide
Beaten down, so many times
I hardly feel the pain.
Those you love the most are the ones who enjoy watching you bleed. And
sometimes you need to ask yourself
Have all that love been in vain?
Hours roll, unfeeling, just as years have rolled before them
With the heaviness of machines, well oiled
Tired eyes, tired heart, spent and alone watch on
Where did it begin?
Where to end? Should it end? Questions
Those painful hooks, tear into the flesh
I don’t wear white, for it shows off the red
Of a wounded bleeding skin.
Haven’t you heard?
Simplicity is the hardest thing.
Less is more, more is less
Who makes these rules, where do they bend?
Can they bend?
Questions. They know
No answers. Life
Is such, as we constantly tell ourselves.
But is it really so? Who makes these rules?
Where do they bend? Can they bend?
No one knows, does
Oh won’t you stay,
Let the midnight weep your absence
Run into my arms, fall unto me
Like a ripened leaf in autumn, weary
An exploding star, in all your darkness
Your rage, your light, your fire, I admire
Your undefined depths, I am aware
That you are, but dust
In all your magnificent glory.
But oh, won’t you stay, linger on
Like the sting of too much pineapple on sensitive teeth, or the dull pain in feet
After a long, happy walk. You are
But human, and beautiful,
In the way you stand alone amongst your own debris.
Let the midnight weep, let
The skies simper and mewl for your cruel niceties
Butterflies disguised as mice, scuttling around the corner
I see beneath the veil, and still
Stand amused, feeling
Walk into your heart people may and
Leave solid footsteps, a fleeting trail of summer blossoms at times
But sometimes all they leave is
A muddied, bloodied mess, strewn with carcasses.
Cleaning up is a bitch.
My heart longs to retire, into the
Cool, mossy embrace of the woods known
The jungle path well traveled, but what use
Is one’s comfort zone but to rot and reek of remains?
A rustle of leaves and a soft sigh of wind brings back your breath
Upon my cheek, a silent kiss
So sweetly wrought
With the subtle pain
Yet I recoil, rewind, wrap myself around me, sink
Unto myself, instead
Of reaching out and touching your face,
Every single time.
Clocks have stopped but time has not
For time knows no dust, it barely sits still
And is impatient,
Like a little girl at the sound of the ice cream truck.
Time is gone, like sifted sand through my fingers, better yet
Tap water, treated with chlorine
Like days in your lover’s arms, like hours
Gazing at the sea. I
Sit impatient, legs swinging
Hitting the sideboard with a dull thud-thudding
An irritating awakening.
Life had been pushed into suitcases, bundled up
Like dirty laundry, tangled and misshapen, I am
Forced to run, run once again
Passport shoved in hand, I protest
I never asked for this. But
Does it ever occur to you that all you get in life are what
You didn’t really ask for anyway?
Morning falls like a burden upon one’s back, yet
Another weight for you to trudge along with, I crack
And bend, but groan and push on
Because we all are donkeys. Donkeys of time.
Nothing less. Nothing more.