Sunday, March 19, 2006


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.

Labels: ,

Sunday, March 12, 2006


Just when you think you are never going down again. A big giant hole awaits, yawning wide like a obese man with too much more than he should have.

I was searching for blood on the sky-blue tiles, hoping I would find some.

You know this bar right? Where the you-me-everybody people gathering to drink god alone knows what. I been there, look this way.

No damnit! Here, in the corner with the dyingtobegins.

So damn hard I think tears are just unjustly human this minute. What I need is a dagger and a feeling of venegance and insanity. To go well with this minute, yes thats just it. What I need is a heart to break and a man to hurt.

I been good, I been so nice, I been good enough, always, always been so right. What is this? Where am I? Am I going to fade into a death, no rough fucks, no joy of tasting blood? Gimme, gimme, gimme please.

O Sailor, why'd you it? What you do that for? Saying theres nothing to it and letting it go by the boards...


Sunday, March 05, 2006


14th February


Meagre pursuits this day. A yin-yang of brandy colour stuck in mundane or is it the muddy brown from an evanescence cut on the lip? Peut-etre. (notez que j'utilise beaucoup de mots du francais? Parce qu'il me fait sembler comme un artiste fantastique, vous voyez?)

As the hair sticks to the blade I watch the sea green bathroom tiles with singular effort squatting on a toilet seat. We have been around sometime now-unknown, unseen, a Scorpio, a Cancerian, both caesareans, both idiots, assholes both-one born with a face that scared his mother and one, a miracle baby with no particular charisma to accompany that title.

Moving away at break-neck speed sometimes.

The blade moves with nervousness, finding a place to move on my brother's pimply face. It's a bloody war, this quazi-first shave of his and I be the only spectator with a bad bout of stomach cramps.

A sign of crossroads, I dare say.

At points from which we take paths away and afar-from no 'proper' children to secretly bad adults. Whad'ya got mate? A 17 and a 16, with no place to go.


This is where I tell him I love him, this is where I beg him to change.

A time reversal, s'il vous plait? (Snickers)
Rewind. Play.

Still there, miles apart, heads twisted in deadbeat stance, far away from anything or anyone who would hold us close.

"Ouch!" another scar he took for life.

Soon it will be over my love. This awkwardness to be suppressed by betrayals, heartbreaks and hate-two different concepts of the world conjoin to form new mistakes and fresh disappointments.

This is where I wish I knew a good love song. You know, some good background music?

"So how's it?"

A call from below, the penthouse on the 17th floor pulls airy ghosts to mamma gravity.

Cuts, bruises, garish clothes.
Bad hair, aching back and red eyes.

Blip. Whrr..Stop...