FAITH

Conversations


You sit there squatting on the cooling rocks watching hands and mouths in other hands and mouths. And the sea swells and falls under your feet, marred by dirt and oil. The sun in an orange-purple glow falls on your brown skin making you glow a purple. Soon its blue, a midnight blue, with lights flashing all over. Orange and yellow and white streaks to adorn a still, starless sky, there's a peppy love song on your player that makes you want to smile, so you do, again and again, fish-mouthing words you've learnt by rote. You look in the mirror and see yourself shine, a white halo over your dark forehead. Million-zillion years ago, you stood somewhere here, on a cleaner sea and pulled in joy that promises to dry. And the stolen rum still melts in your mouth, it isn’t happiness but there's a 'thing' about stealing and lying and ensemble that makes you want to scream out and laugh. Bouncing up and down, confusion. Blur; you want them to hate you maybe.

-What's it you want, she asks

He won't reply
~A patient pause~
-Little fingers on your tiny spine,
I'll trace till the moon would burn
A blood clot on your back,
A kiss from me,
You could never forget, he says

-I love you, she says

All is well then. Back to love songs, back to world, back to lights.

I'll see you here some other day, floating on the sea with your infinite calm and rejoice the fact that I could never own or understand you, you frail, frail being, first a man then a celestial-maybe God, maybe Evil as they said.

The Unwrappings At Little Thomas’ Heart

The Unwrappings At Little Thomas' Heart

A peek into de.vil-ish diary This way through


Boom. The doors fall; the music walks in uninvited, uninfected. A bitter cupid plays his strings in Little Thomas' Heart tonight. The smiles sit waiting in the backseat under the muddy skies. The hands move behind backs not their own yet. Vanilla pictures creaking stories strum on the musicians fingers. The pain wouldn't hide itself. The grey of his eyes met the dove eyes on the other side of the table. Expectations. Great expectations.

The glasses clink, empty from too much drinking. The windows wash in rain. Midnight blues turn to grey. The rainbows walk in now. The vertiginous stilettos balanced under the masculine legs and pale feminine hands. A slither of tongue and the most provocative gesture falls flat on the face of human history. His legs part finding comfort in a position. The leather on his feet hurt. The lights eat away his sight. The sag seeks more territory than his middle-aged backside. Life is a short warm day.

Her lips part, mouth wide open, the lipstick smeared all over his lips. It was good to be embarrassed so. Little Thomas' Heart peeks from under its boredom with a disgusted amusement.

The stories flow and the glasses die. The fairies are far far away. Maybe farther lost than the smiles.

BIRTHDAY FURY

So Im back, once again. Its not little that I whine about and loneliness under a flickering bulb rather than a well groomed dirt rich life awaits. I ought to fall down and die probably, but there are no nine lives and more desires than for nine hundered. Im tired and jumping again, hopping on the hoarse rythmn of a dry, dry cough.

Fury

Angel. Where are the tears?
The garden dries,
Give me a leaf, a night sky dried,
Leave. Love me, your mini death,
Not black, just beautiful orange,
Your death. A sunbaked, moonstruck, orangeness.

Sick Leave

A lot of coloured pills, not asleep. It isnt any good. I wish they were stronger. All I have now is a viral infection, a choking amount of mucus and absolutely bad creativity. I'll be back. Hasta La Vista.

Miss me.