METAMORPHOSIS (BOOK II)

The drying after days of turmoil is a finger pointing at the veal coloured lips-no azure of blue and no willingness to be a proper purple.
Line after line, erased and deleted till all that remains of a dark cloudy sky is a naked, sunless afternoon-an aftermath of a hoarse rain. The very inappropriate yellow skirt sits in ennui on thighs and ‘secret triangles’. The fancy underwear is chopped to a tiny piece of elastic that is now naked except for the innocence only the ugly can conjure.

A lovely crescent is being spanked till it falls asleep, bottom skywards.

On the pages of another evening is a curly haired little girl crying at the demise of her light-blue crayon. A word spreads throughout the painting. Stick men and women with tiny plant-like children; large bulbous flowers; the mountains and the brown stream with incandescent green are all awaiting the sky, angry with the little girl who is scratching her pee-pee due to frustration and unhygienic habits. Soon the stick lawyers will be on their way, with suitcases and mandamus’. The poor black and green birds are all suspended in confusion, rather dead, suspiciously blissful. I ask her if they are angels.
No, angels are white.

Lawyers are black.

You and me, we are brown.

You decide, I tell her. The angry roars hurt her 7-year old self. She draws them miniature Prada clothes, high-heeled shoes for the ladies, patent boots for men and Nike sneakers for the children. In deep curiosity she looks, queen squatting on the outsides of her kingdom. The lawyers are still accusing. She wails now- tired and retiring abiding defeat-into her mothers lap and then in exile on the polka dotted bed, embracing her mother’s ample waist.

The queen gone, they subside. I draw them a fire. I draw them guns and I draw them a sky in the grey of blind pupils.

The child is gone.