It hurts when you can't see why you fell in love. It hurts to look at letters and not see anything at all.

I'm losing meaning and my 125th post will stay a-while because I'm lost. Very much so.

Meeting life in it's myriad forms

Across the window is a wide range of beauties – dark skin, light skin, brown skin - that glimmers under their red wedding trousseaus, their white gowns vaguely bringing to mind 70s beauties and the blue dresses that wedge into thighs and buttcracks. There’s nothing that you wouldn’t know when you are this old, they tell me looking back at myself out of the window.

We wait for the lights to turn green, looking far and wide, into ourselves and outside the circle of life, counting our steps into the countdown.

I am slipping away even as I speed further into the web of life.

The neon lights leave marks on my bare legs. His big tummy caresses the steering wheel as he shifts, at discomfort with the creatures of the night rustling their wares outside. I notice thin white lines of a smile, a smirk, a leer.

The sky winks with a crescent moon that follows us where we go.

They know they aren’t getting lucky tonight. Not with us, they wont. Because parents aren’t interested in orgies. Not with their children at least.
This is how they get back at the life they can never have, as D would say.

I smile back because that is the most polite thing to do when you’ve stared at cleavage for more than 15 seconds.

They smile and I can hear the lewd male voice swear. A muscle ripples in his face as he laughs and pulls at his own tits.

Outcasts mar you and I can never tell you how that feels.

If nobody’s said it yet, somebody ought to:
What are these words but a pale imitation of reality?

It's a little late but it ought to be here.

The muezzin calls, a congregation forms and in some other guise I watch them kneel, bow lower and lower. Sink into the marble and under it.

The black and white pattern and the plaster blue walls echo in my head as the bells ring. A bhangi with giant shades throws flowers at me and curses me with promise of devotion. I am to be a slave, this unearthly squeal of music tells me.

He splits apart as I fall on my back, the floor smelling of rotting flowers and granite. My head rests against a pew and I fall asleep as the stained glass window people sing to me.

When there’s nowhere else to run,

Is there room for one more sun?

I am me now. In a room full of people screaming, jumping up and down. climbing over, kissing my feet, pushing me downward, into mouths and hands and I scream with them eyes closed. I am crazy and it’s only 5 minutes into this. The stained glass window people bound in, jump about me and robes, sheets, cake flies around. I see amber liquids and spiked sodas. I drink, all of it apparently. All of it.

Happy Birthday to me.

Happy Birthday to me.

Oh, well. Hell. I’m older but it’s nice. I scream and I kiss, a million mouths and hug a few. I want to cry but alas, tears don’t express well. Nobody is as happy as this feeling, including me.

I’M A RIVER (You are my bridge)

Sitting in between the door,

A mile wide leg, a pink dress and fingers

Waiting till they all come and sit

A party of madmen

And pin me down

With the weight of them -

Teeth, claws and photographs.

I’m a roller-coaster

Rolling all around them

Crashing and tearing them all apart

Leaving bits around

For the accountant and the orphan.

Don’t walk away from me

Because I stink

of memories

I’m the river that floats on sheets

Leaving streaks

Of fertility and sorrow.

I am the river

That rumbles into sheets

Leaving traces of a struggle.