Peek

I anger for a while,

while a while becomes longer.

The longer I anger,

the longer it hides.

Under a carpet,

of Persian wonder,

I sweep my anger for a while longer.

Neighbours Surbiba,

wander over,

their heels on a mound,

of brimming delight.

Parchment

I wake up in the middle of the night and can't sleep until I put these words out of my head. The words themselves, they come out dark and over the top. I know this but forgive my imposition on your reading, for I have never learnt where this line lies.

Dear Poetry,

Why aren't you dead?

Everything you've ever said about the world is exactly what makes me wish I were never born, and ironically at the same time those very things coupled with every beautiful echo that you resonate sustains my breath.

What sustains yours?
Not money and fame,
But maybe your pain?

You kill me and bring me back to life every time I hear that inflexion in your voice. You make me shudder under the sheets when I'm alone in bed. I will not stop writing about you and I will scratch the nib of my pen faster when my arms shiver from exertion, when my hands go numb, when the blood drains from my fingers and my back arches and aches, because my mind's thoughts of you never stop running, from one sentence into the other. They see me as a hunched figure, starved, a mere dim light illuminating my pale face and bloodshot eyes as I hungrily undress you in my head. I look crazy I know, I sound crazy I know, but I daren't stop. You move me like no other, you make me into this, you haunt me, you plague me, your voice hinders my sleep, you inspire my prose and without you I'm rendered illiterate. You make me feel like there's more in store for me, beyond what I see as what isn't my life.

My existence was in lieu of yours.

Take me away for days and mouth to me all you know. Show me how to be dead alive, for as long as you can beat this curse, I too may.

I don't always hear you,
But I think I know you,
I implore you,
So will you?

Sincerely,
Prose

Click

Post Holiday Blues

They keep saying that what goes up must come down. I keep saying that who ever coined that phrase should eat shit and die.

Last week in it's entirety had me sprawled out on a beach donning shades, sun block and bits of lycra that only the daring would call a swimsuit. Add to that a good book, sunset dips in the ocean, moon gazing in the pool, good friends, great food, booze, music, parties, conversation and you win any which way.

Cat Got My Tongue

When I can't write, I doodle even though I'm not one for the talent. My art teacher always scolded me for pressing the pencil down too hard; she complained of my penchant for darkness, especially after a particularly insane sketch of an animal skull. What can I say? I was younger and thought myself to be a rebel of some kind, when in fact, I was not. I don't need to mention that I never did prosper in the subject.

Inspite this, here goes. If you look at them at an angle and in quick succession, they look like suppository victims. Comic.

Twins

There’s always someone whose existence seems richer than my own. Someone else I’m dying to write about, whose every thought I ache to exploit, whose every tear will quench my relentless thirst, whose simple joys I drown my words in, forcing them under.

Their stories flash across my eyes, each one wrapped in a single photograph, like a slide show, every second, there’s no time to look, quickly, click, quickly, click, quickly, an old man, bandaged feet, a pedestrian crossing, click, quickly, a teenage girl, a school uniform, a foggy classroom window, click, a windy day, a lady, a white sari, the edge of a roof, quickly, quickly, a starved boy, jaded eyes, a cameraman, click, click, this is the pace my heart beats at, each click a person’s life, each beat betrays their tales.

To all the Almosts, and yet the Not Quites

There have been more guys than one that I think may have got away, because I’ve never made up my mind or known what I want. I think that proves why I let them go, yet I feel so deeply about them and grow so confused at times that I imagine there to exist more feeling than is necessarily true. I can’t be sure and I know no one ever is, but the least I’d like to expect of myself is to not be confused. That would be something if not everything. The incident in question was quite bland actually, nowhere near as dramatic as this; I think I could make a paper bag look gloomy. I’ve pimped and embellished because I can.

I hesitated before hitting the little red button on my Nokia. But there wasn’t any point; the line was already dead. The deepness of his voice echoes in my heart.

Let’s Give Them Something to Wonder About

I love how our blogs make us look cooler than we are in real life. At times these spaces on the Internet seem more real than the people we meet. Face to face, we are all just people without placards stripped of our glamour.

People pass me by and I wonder if these ordinary people have a blog, where they rave and rant and talk that way and walk that way. I wonder if I have ever read their words, comments, nodding my head, or wanting to bitchslap them, or laughing out loud.

I wonder if when I pass them by, something in the air will change. I wonder if that turn of the head and look in my direction means something.

When I stand at the back of a crowded room, I see the edges of webs connecting us. Laughing faces in gathered groups, a sparkling red line crackling through the air all the way to the other corner, to the other laughing face in the other gathered group. And I think to myself, “They would never even know it”.

Perhpas if they did, they would remain in those disconnected corners.

A Protest Prose

This is a protest prose, sticking it to the pigs who whore us out to 15 minutes of fame, in any shape or form. They really really piss me off.

None of us are waiting to be discovered, you hear me? Look at me when I’m talking to you.
Just because you see us; just because you see us, now, suddenly, it doesn’t mean our warm breath never used to make fog on a cold glass surface.

We are not your discovery to make coz they ain’t no such thing. We already exist discovered far more within ourselves than you could ever know.

Start the clock.

Every Other Night

I’m listening to Crazy Love by Van Morrison and Everybody Hurts by REM in repetitive cycles. It’s a bad combination for a rainy night like this one. The flashes of lightning rip in through the windows lighting up my eyes but for a moment, and I just want more. I want thunder until it rumbles so loud that I can’t hear the madness of my own thoughts, so powerful that I fear something else other than the destruction of myself, that I may feel anything but how I feel right now.

I want to be crouched in the rain, sobbing in a corner and smoking. I want each rain drop to slightly pierce my skin enticing just a smattering of blood, the combination rolling off my skin to meet in a puddle below me.

I want to feel any kind of pain but the kind that resides in my heart. I want to feel direct pain from a consequence of something defined, something tangible that I can blame or call my mistake. Pain from a punch, pain from an accident, pain from heartbreak.