TU DIT

TU DIT

The day falls to be happy. The grey clouds burst with the uncertainty of his smiles and that of the funny feeling in my stomach when I see his crinkled eyes and his frail body heavily lifting up. Like a drug addict I said. The figurine in her hand looks pretty. She wonders if the other one is her boyfriend. You bitchy prick I mutter. The rain falls and I wade through the puddles, watching the eyes on my clingy t-shirt. Nice he mutters. There are sudden bursts of smiles; a premonition of good things to come is around the corner and they watch me with incredulity. You are much easier to talk to now they say. Yesterday the picture they saw and giggling they ask how the hair stands on top of your head so still. I push back my head and laugh a Carrey Bradshaw laugh. Like a drug addict they say. Life wasn't normal anyway, now there are these wonderful masks that lack of coffee brings. I am suddenly all of bright blue pullovers and heels. I am suddenly glass bangles and white t-shirts.

Life can't be loved and I am not trying any more.

NIGHT

NIGHT

Lips part, a finger pressed on her throat maddening her. There was need yes, but more so the guilt along with the fear of being caught that was arousing. The voice, the lips and the hands weren't anyone's; they were separate entities on her studio bed. She squirmed against her white sheet covers as sweat spread on her forehead and under her. The ache was maddening but she knew she shouldn't stop. Pending screams threatened to pour out along with those secrets that she had only read of. The fingers ran everywhere like frenzied monsters-fingering her lips, clutching her neck, grasping her heaving breast. Some moved below with maddening rapidity. The smell of an anonymous body, a thousand million of his words climbed into her head in different voices; she wanted to call out his name but she didn't know it. The fingers rushed along in their work as a hand flew to her mouth closing it with desperation. Her eyes flew open and searched in the darkness for something to remember-traces of light still weakly secreted from the burnt out bulb. She watched its afterglow till her eyes rolled halfway underneath her lids and surrealism took over. Her feet wide spread ached and there was an electric feel in her stomach. She muttered something she couldn't understand as the frenzy grew to painful heights. Waves of an old song fairly forgotten rolled in and she stopped; the irked fingers stopped as abruptly as they had begun. They withdrew to her side wiping away -partly disappointed- the wetness on her white sheets with the grotesque flowers before lying on her heaving stomach. And then she sung the neglected song feeling the wall still left unbroken, her body still on fire. There is no need now, she assured as she sung. The anonymous components relaxed in pouted acknowledgement. It was neither ego nor was it pride. It was unwillingness she comprehended. There had to be someday to regret this but not tonight. The still wet fingers, the faceless voice promised that this hadn't been a one-night stand.

They weren't her but soon would be.

STORYTELLER

STORYTELLER

It keeps altering,
Clamping, exploding, it dies then unfolds slowly on pristine pages.
Its yellow oldness daring me to move closer,
To crave the vile smell that its contours flaunt,
To be eaten away with derisive joy.

We twist and dance on the walls of a lie,
Our shadows swaying in shy grace,
To the rhythm of a pacing pulse,
The breath of an exhausted mind drumming in our drunken heads
I watch hypnotized,
Crimson dots love in the white sky above,
Mouths with lipsticked words wake and then withdraw,
His eyes fly away with affection cold
Kisses on their bruised silk hearts,
A sealed pact of death on the wearing rags,
My virgin limbs he strings; surreal ease in surrender his enormous eyes promise,
My dark cotton heart, his wordless unfolding tears open to a million little scars,
I hum; bemuse bonding me in a filthy kiss.

Then I watched them fall on the sunset greens,
They rose and danced again,
Wild, daunting secrets they hid, now gushing through their lined eyes,
A distorted smile on their red angry mouths,
They cavort in drugged ease,
Wanton whispers now woken up from their restless dreams,
The forgotten nomads with worthless lives,
The bastards adopted by orphan hands.


They do that for money he said. Like prostitutes I asked. No, worst he said. We both nod on either side of the phone uncomfortable with the way the conversation is going.

I am so lonely now; change is killing me, and so is hope.

BLOODSHED

BLOODSHED

A deep sense of being drowned but unlike water, this was drowning into a cacophony. A million voices like an untuned radio plays in my sleep keeping me on the surface of a trance. He slides inside, halfe awake, halfe asleep...Her voice seeps into my ears and her words in their tranquillity contrast to the loud chaos waking me with the suddenness of a full stop. The abruptness leaves me clueless about what to do next so I lie trying to gather the voices that played underneath. They always fascinate me, I yawn. I turn sideways to see a deer on the sheet swathed in a translucent bloody coat. I look at her sleeping, her brows contracted in a pensive pose. "Awwfick" I mumble stumbling on the words that I gobbled greedily. Her dainty legs are splayed on a faraway side of the bed still unaware. I was wondering what she would think. I had horrors waking up in my head, all those things I pushed down, under my skirt. The deer lay, blood caked on its mid morning carcass, the yellow dot sun shining on it, shamelessly displaying the secrets hidden. Its wide-open eyes stared into the pink sky and the white ground, moving beyond into the contours of the blue-sky-brown-earth world. She lay there unaware of the murder and the blood. I, the witness was still trying to ward the morning sluggishness from her body and her eyes that wouldn't budge past half-mast. She turned her back to me, revealing a larger amount of dead deer's all staring into infinitum. Soon she would wake and shed tears on the bloodshed in a wasted attempt to revise the murder she had done without intending to. None would wake; history was too much a bitch to amend pitying her confused tears. Soon the witness would stumble down, and announce the news. And as she lay and cried, hunched on dead deer's we would dance our automaton dances with dull smiles stuck on our stupid mouths, morphing into evil in her innocent glass eyes under her crinkled eyebrows.