An ode to the sounds of Pop

Bubble wrap glistens in the sun,
Wink wink wink as they burst
A nail creases the swelling,
Trying to control the heaving
Kneel kneel kneel, whore.
You are breaking below surfaces
Only to stab your own skin
There’s no point to this pain, love
Except to pass summer afternoons
Crouched, gargoyle-style, head to the ground
Listening
For songs of lovers
Pop pop pop, the song goes
They sing along, these lovers, loudly, sincerely
Because like bubble wrap, these songs make more sense when misplaced
Outside boxes, in craving hands
That want to tame, tame, tame
Hear fragile things burst
With very little protest.
We sing these songs because we are on a rather long route, now that we are on board
And bubble-gum songs are the only thing that last
Past worries, creases, anger, welts and scars.
All your anger will swirl swirl swirl
With the psychedelic lights of the pop pop pop
and in that happy moment
Everything will be alright

Love is a disco song with no meaning.

The birds in the sky sang today, you wonder how you never noticed it before. It isn’t particularly beautiful but there is something about it, the way it slips in and out of the sunshine that streaks the maudlin-blue Plexiglas windows creating light blue shapes dancing all over the room. Outside, there is a man with the biggest, most luminous grin holding the door open for me. I couldn’t help grin back - creasing my jaw and holding it still till every muscle in my face ached. The children yelped in joy and swam haywire in the pool, each shimmering brown body an amalgam of bliss and forgetfulness. From a disintegrating, ancient headphone, I heard Born Under a Bad Sign and nodded along. Tunnananananun. Tun. Twantwantwantwang. I held hands, shook my head, grinned and walked into the sunlight and back into archaic foundations full of people jostling and crying out to each other, clicking photographs and holding themselves and each other from toppling over due to sheer excitement. I yelled a few names, a few hundred extraordinary, incandescent faces twirled. Somebody called out to me. We hugged and jumped around. I remember falling but couldn’t feel pain. It was surreal, I was as high as a kite, I must have had something really strong, they say.

- It’s just been a long time since I was happy, I say.

Everything was so perfect this way, even my joblessness, even my loneliness. Everything was touched by a hint of auricular April sunlight.

Lies of a Day

If I could take every word you ever said and put them in a vial I would swallow it and let it slip and drift through my entrails and fall deep down into little closets of my mind that I still hold chaste. The only repose after days of being and days of drifting are these words that you pair and form poetry and art and magic with. I can’t help falling in love with glimpses of you in a Doors song or in lines of self-destruction scribbled along books. Words aren’t important otherwise, they pass lips-big, black, bruised, pink and full, all of them-and hide little crevices that open in solace. But with you, there are a life-line, from me to you and then back again. Passed to and fro like breath and food for the dying.

Hope,

Joy,

Affection,

Affectation.

Fool

Tiny specks cloud my vision. It’s the possibility of moist, vacant dreams of horrifying sounds and beautiful voices. He bites onto those big, bruised, cigarette-abused lips and gives a grin-sly and inviting. I know I have to touch them to make sure they are real.

Being inches away sometimes is difficult. I need to smell him-repugnant and alcoholic in breath and adorable and crazy in the eyes. I feel like a fifteen year old knocked up future pop tart.

Don’t start laughing. I’m not clown enough to not cry.

...what the hell, never was a baritone till you stepped in...

Little Secrets Old Men Hide

A summer morning of no particular consequence was flowing in with the vitriolic sun as you stood at the window from where you could see the long, lithe leg under her summer dress and she could see you from the corner of her uncharacteristicly large eyes. You wonder if she could tie you up to the chair, legs embrassing your waist. You would be amazed when I tell you this, shes been wondering how your sweat soaked fingers would taste and if half moustaches do tickle inner thighs. What a lovely way to start a morning, her dying tongue flickering against yours as you rub her little tummy against your rough palm while her proud chest pushes your shoulders against the walls your wife pressed you against when she hit you. Lovely, late Lolita, mine.

Oh now shes crying amazements in her head as you talk dirty to her in yours. Unchristian ways of beckoning Him as she's calling you names, lonely, tired ones. The ones you wanted to hear so often from your wife. She deserved what she got, a stunning death at the hands of her brother. Lovely, lovely C, with his brawny shoulders. Sometimes you just wanted to...

And just when the maid walks in, so many liquids on your widower floor. She's surprised because she doesnt know what it is. Not anymore. There is more than secretion there. A little girl and an old man with their dirty smells. A proud, fertile woman and a tired, willing old man. A lovely vagina below a lovelier face. A tired face over a scarred body.

Oh for the love of secrets.


Im angrier than this post can tell you. Penises ruling the world is just bugging me right now.

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.

UNWRITTEN DIARIES

Unwritten Diaries

It's a feeling of swimming underwater, the eyes flicker, meets and drops once again. Now, Now, Now. And then the words stop, convenience slips in, take your time, the minutes stretch into colourful negatives. Photographs of flowerless flaws, no stars, no sunshine, no wet dreams; a place where Marshall meets Ricardo meeting De Morgan meeting Freud meeting the lies and wasted ideas of men yellowing in the pages of reject and unjustifiable care. Closer to reality and no need for hope. Just this once, a touch of absolutely no meaning, a secret smile of approval and then he can flow in with his and I will keep searching. Why didn't I? It's his eyes, black shiny stones of weakness that creep in, I am scared, his hands smell of her hair, her lips and their secrets. I couldn't. Not that he wanted it; just his shrinking under my fingers was good. Power like I wanted it but am always denied; the power of a leather whip and the Impeccable, where nothing I do is wrong, maybe love but that isn't it. Its his lips, the way they hang in need, my craving to touch at the tip and drag, just this once, when no one sees, in this blinding sun. A shadow smile of courtesy on his face and mumbled words of apology, I sink and fall, my eyes hooded from him. Let this go, I say, not this time. A twisted muscle smile with a regret stuck forver on this mid-morning I walk away, cold and self-denied.


That's the last of the times I felt. The need still gnaws and I just let it burn, waiting for love or a quench for this incessant need.

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.