Me (?)

Pink stains on the table lit from a little light from closing eyes,

What’s that I hear, a queer voice on the floor grows,

A grip on my knee of immense strength,

Beast called the sister, how long will you hide,

Come hither, hither lovely lady,

Come hither, tender soul

Be louder, said the mother, the enchantress of strange tastes,

The floors underneath padded with my moon-struck tastes,

I cant but hold that one desire,

Of caresses, pure hatred more pristine than your lords confounded riff-raff.

Soon the tables laid, the sisters swathed in green royalty,

Not one a red of desired tenderloin,

A need for youth the matriarchs cry, a need for undying perfection,

Smooth cheeks for lovely hands for lovely palms for lovely eyes.

And the vapours wipe mist, clothes falling graceless bits of borrowed life,

Rivers vast my eyes drop, nay a teardrop jewel on your vindictive crown,

How the love of this woman kills me, love,

A faint women sleeping in my body and gently tempting me to things,

Precious beasts of such gentle curiosity with their desires to touch round breasts

And caresses boisterous tresses.

Oh how these women hold me still, ripping all those desires,

Till a plain sheath of frigidity is all that’s left,

A perfect oval of black ice, I.

Where would you find a heart in green?

Where, oh, where?

Now Playing: Moloko-Requiem For a Dream

SIX DAY TEMPTATIONS.

Where do I begin?

The blue ocean moves all around me, pregnant with puny, translucent shells, pulling at my ankle as it sucks the sand from under me. The underplayed urgency is alluring-enticing-as the yellow sun pisses on my neck leaving a brown aftermath. Singing in the sunshine, laughing in the rain… Oo Yeah!

The terrace is low and white with cheap plaster. The sky is clear blue turning grey turning orange. The voices are close, pulling at my hair, my five sizes too big t-shirt and howling in joy.
-You’ll fall; you’ll faaall.
Oh, you wish.

I look down at the bar. The abstract symbols signifying the motorcycle and the hundred grams were still recognizable in the wobbling pool of cerveza. Those representing hard work and discipline however have defeated the surface tension that held them together and merged to become another soggy spillage on the bar top. I shrugged and smeared my future across the uneven surface. I was always like this on Friday afternoons.

Or, at the very end probably?

The balloon man stands alone on the station under a tree. The tiny balloons are full of puss and blood and wobble as he walks. All evenly brown under the urinating summer sun. His hands are extended asking for sympathy, the one white peace of cloth around his loins hiding little of his ostracized balloon body.

On the upper berth of the choo-choo train, watching the green leaves and the blue water from under glasses, I feel protected, saved for another day, thrown out of turmoil into stifling peace with a practiced and well-worn hand of solitude.

I am the boy,
That can enjoy,
Invisibility.

Many thanks to Chris Haslam of the ‘Twelve Step Fandango’ and the momentarily under-appreciated ‘Ulysses’ by James Joyce.

Scribbling thighs, lately.

How do you feel today?

I don’t know, doctor-too subtle to be angry, too strong to be disinterested.

Today, there are 99 channels competing in my head, Daddy Yankee being the stander-upper.

Oop-dukka-gasolina-din-taka-gasolina. Din-din-din. Woop-dukka-gasolina-jhin-chuckka-gasolina. Hey, hey, hey.

Followed by Eminem, followed by 50 cent, followed by almost nude women singing hey, hey, hey baby.

And beneath the window stands a little girl,
A tiny fragment hung up on nine-inch heels of happiness,
We pulled her pigtail; green creeper fell,
Moist in my hands as they twisty-shine in the cruel sun.

We walked her up and down hidden in little fists, she gushed,
Tiny and tender warm things that feel slimy in your hands,
And rubbed them on each others ruby-red faces,
So tired from the worldly tribulations.
And he watched O in the mouth as she rubbed it to his chest,
Little fingers scratching-Ice cold-he says.
A green wisp so beautiful blue,
A tangerine shade now aspirin white,
How they took my dreams and put them as prey to
Little pills and conditioning for reason,
A new world in them, new ideas.
Sometimes it just becomes too bloody difficult to die.

I find it tiresomely funny, doctor. This, this-aha!-hatred.

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.

RECEPROCAL PUPPETS

And now for some teenage angst and truly heartfelt poetry.


RECEPROCAL PUPPETS.

Burns flare on yellow skin,
How does it feel to be caressed so cruelly, slave?
The bits of life slowly sucked away,
A mossy green on my ceiling grows,
A green-blooded heart encompasses agony,
How does your blood flow so indifferently?
Messages leaked into tonight's wind,
Oh, how the whore-d you hollers!
The blue vein flowers under your peel -
Overshadowing seasonal gardens-
Blushing under lunar stares,
How I forget my penitent soul on your lap,
Being crushed by your fanatic strength.
Occasionally dying under the curing sun,
Occasionally living under reciprocating strings.

DRUMBEATS

Drumbeats

This is about a boy. He is a monarch in his way, a freak in the others way. You cannot like him, he promises. I gifted him the bullangells in yesterday's dreams, for him to have company. He can't grow; he can fly. He does fly, from me, from you, from everybody. One day I will write about him.

The fowl sleeps on the last rays of an orange sun,
An effervescence of light, immobile-
A black-eye purple traced childishly with a dwindling interest,
A picture book of bizarre dreams left for a blank child to see…

On a green velvet leaf, a dethroned god waits,
Drunk on tears for an unquenchable thirst.
The bullangells wake and close in, to worship his rusted days,
A dull energy of drumbeats and a handful of frozen blood flakes-
Dreamily, the monarch wakes,
Orange on his eye's horizons.
A hunger flames on the corner of his mouth,
Wide-awake, he rushes, eating with a maggot's greed
Himself in and out and again.
The bullangell weeps -'tis a bizarre sound-like a child stuck midst laughter tears.
He eats still, the greed growing-his fingers, his arms, his soul.
Blind now but to his want, he eats, the monarch as in whole,
The bullangells cheer, egg him on with the dull drumbeats of their giant feet.
Till daylight rips a hole in his meal, a gaping distance in his senses.
Now the mirrors wake, where the bullangell frolicked,
A muse on their stony stare,
A mocking stillness as the monarch squirms and watches his jewels fall,
A nothingness, a no good man, a eaten crown and a broken heart,
His territory lost, the monarch flies again,
Bullangell scream on the end of the day he follows-misfit and a freak.

I

I, the captain of a shipwreck,
With a heart of weed and a soul of a butterfly.
I, the captain of a shipwreck,
With a string of hope and a pill for joy.

I am not alone, just lonely. They hide calmly playing dead till I am sad. I can see their fingerprints tied up to my hands if I watch closely. If you tried that, they would disappear. They live a minx' life, they tell me-they hurt, they bite and then wipe it all away. Only someone with too much love could do that for you. A mischief in hand for me to put under my tongue, till the saccharine dies out, till a hollow grows. A water bubble encased numbness that floats up and down and finally settles in.

Some mornings I disappoint them with my fist full of hope, my glossy yellow bangles and my lovely eyes. I walk into bright lights. N-O-R-M-A-L. With a smile and a tamed flutter for my umbra heart. Till someone comes along and tramples on my glass bangles, bruising them from black to blue to crimson of my shameful blood. I walk back to them, searching under my rucksacks and my pillows, on my knees pleading, asking for forgiveness. They punish, their spidery fingers jabbing into my dead butterfly soul. You are ugly and you will always be alone, you know we love you. Only us, only we, only us, we love you. You have nowhere to go, you would die, you ugly, ugly, lonely soul. I sit and sleep, curling up in my sheets trying not to cry. They fall eventually, not tears but the moans muffled in my pillow and my hands move over me, no longer mine but theirs, fingering me, pinching me, till I cannot reason and till pain mixes with pleasure mixes with melancholy mixes with pleasure; longing for flesh, for a smell not mine. To wrap myself over the smell of a flesh not mine.

Tomorrow morning wakes to find me stronger on my bed with invisible bites all over me. It is their strength that I sucked on yesterday, open mouthed, longing, wet for it. All Night. I could laugh, could smile, could smirk. Not feel.

I, the captain of a shipwreck,
I, who wades through nursery rhymes,
I, the captain of a shipwreck,
With tears hidden in his phallus.