Listen.
Pour all your poison into blotches on this skin.
Press it on hard push it through your pores.
Let this black and brown line you more.
Look. You now have a a distinct pattern.
Let Coach purchase it for their Limited Edition.
But now, pay heed, for this is important.
Shed this skin when you've finished, I caution.
For feet to trample, they need a hide
For this skin they shall have, even if to skin alive.
So mark my words, O Simpleton
Shed this skin, make a run.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
In the crowd of a fair
" I believe Mute had died a few days ago"
"What do you mean?"
" It died a few days ago but it is only now that I see. I don't write much anymore. It's gone. Used up.
I poured it all into one big yellow balloon and now it has floated away from me.
Out of sight. Beyond what I can see.
The Wind just came and tugged away my child. Lured to it the open skies. Showed it all the freedom I couldn't give.
My words were getting choked on themselves.
There were too many though my child seemed too young for such a thought.
So my words crashed and bumped into each other instead of sitting in their allotted spaces.
They thought it was time to go hunt for an identity. But they bumped into each other and knew not one from the other or themselves.
They asked which one of us is new? Unique?
Which one of us Ma, is special?
What could I say? They were all mine.
They were all special.
But my children didn't want to hear such an answer. Each child jumped and hopped. Hoped if it would leap higher it would be my favourite. But a mother's love doesn't favour.
So one by one they left my hand in this crowd fair where I stand afraid. Where I clutched them close.
But they left my hand anyway and floated to freedom of the skies away from the strangling hold of their mother's love.
My children took the stranger's candy. Left my hand to walk
In the crowds of the chameleon skies.
And there wasn't even a goodbye. "
"What do you mean?"
" It died a few days ago but it is only now that I see. I don't write much anymore. It's gone. Used up.
I poured it all into one big yellow balloon and now it has floated away from me.
Out of sight. Beyond what I can see.
The Wind just came and tugged away my child. Lured to it the open skies. Showed it all the freedom I couldn't give.
My words were getting choked on themselves.
There were too many though my child seemed too young for such a thought.
So my words crashed and bumped into each other instead of sitting in their allotted spaces.
They thought it was time to go hunt for an identity. But they bumped into each other and knew not one from the other or themselves.
They asked which one of us is new? Unique?
Which one of us Ma, is special?
What could I say? They were all mine.
They were all special.
But my children didn't want to hear such an answer. Each child jumped and hopped. Hoped if it would leap higher it would be my favourite. But a mother's love doesn't favour.
So one by one they left my hand in this crowd fair where I stand afraid. Where I clutched them close.
But they left my hand anyway and floated to freedom of the skies away from the strangling hold of their mother's love.
My children took the stranger's candy. Left my hand to walk
In the crowds of the chameleon skies.
And there wasn't even a goodbye. "
Saturday, September 16, 2006
A thought
There's a thought that circles her where she sits with her legs under her and hair messily around her face.
It is a frightening thought. Which circles up and down around her. She doesn't see it. But the closer it gets the less she breathes.
It's whizzing by close, so close it raises up a slight rush of air on her skin from where it races by.
And she breathes more erratically. Words don't form. Coherence is crushed.
Her ribs feel a pounding within. Massive rushes of painful blows within.
She can hear her organs struggle to keep her alive but it isn't that which is frightening.
It is this thought, this shameless vicious thought. This thought that sucks out all the air from where it dwells.
This thought.
This morbid thought.
It is a frightening thought. Which circles up and down around her. She doesn't see it. But the closer it gets the less she breathes.
It's whizzing by close, so close it raises up a slight rush of air on her skin from where it races by.
And she breathes more erratically. Words don't form. Coherence is crushed.
Her ribs feel a pounding within. Massive rushes of painful blows within.
She can hear her organs struggle to keep her alive but it isn't that which is frightening.
It is this thought, this shameless vicious thought. This thought that sucks out all the air from where it dwells.
This thought.
This morbid thought.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Insufficient
There had been calm for a while. P'haps too long.
So the fire alarms were rung where no smoke arose. Panic -was necessary.
The shrill sounds mercilessly twang against metal. Pounding eardrums. Sending the heartbeat into an erratic frenzy.
She thought drinking from the yellow pool was a good excuse. To be deceitful.
To contemplate the forbidden.
To feign, the yellow instead of the clear, hazed up one's mind.
As if that was reason enough to push Them off a canyon into the sharp projections of the sword-like stones.
In a canyon so wide, one's voice never echoed for it lost its way , its sound.
So deep, one never heard boulders strike ground.
No, not even in thought was it justified.
Not when we had pricked our hearts and exchanged blood .
A promise bound.
Worn in lockets.
Above the pulsating muscled organ in our chests.
But now you see- the one in your locket?
Was the impure one.
So the fire alarms were rung where no smoke arose. Panic -was necessary.
The shrill sounds mercilessly twang against metal. Pounding eardrums. Sending the heartbeat into an erratic frenzy.
She thought drinking from the yellow pool was a good excuse. To be deceitful.
To contemplate the forbidden.
To feign, the yellow instead of the clear, hazed up one's mind.
As if that was reason enough to push Them off a canyon into the sharp projections of the sword-like stones.
In a canyon so wide, one's voice never echoed for it lost its way , its sound.
So deep, one never heard boulders strike ground.
No, not even in thought was it justified.
Not when we had pricked our hearts and exchanged blood .
A promise bound.
Worn in lockets.
Above the pulsating muscled organ in our chests.
But now you see- the one in your locket?
Was the impure one.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
A lost cloud
There's a lonely cloud stuck in the midst of this spruce studded mountain.
There's a horde of clouds migrating to the North. Towards the Arctic Circle ready to envelope the sun to bring in the winter of 10 months.
But there is this lonely cloud stuck right above a crowd of spruce as though the baby wandered for a few minutes and got stuck in the centre of a circle of prickly bullies. And there it has stayed since, lost from its kind, away from fulfilling what it had supposed, was its Purpose of life.
So it stays as a little mist, a halo, in the centre of this towering maze of glacier rivulets and waterfalls where hikers can sit under.
In the middle of the mountain facing a marshy shoreline, it's the little heaven this tiny cloud was meant to bring.
There's a horde of clouds migrating to the North. Towards the Arctic Circle ready to envelope the sun to bring in the winter of 10 months.
But there is this lonely cloud stuck right above a crowd of spruce as though the baby wandered for a few minutes and got stuck in the centre of a circle of prickly bullies. And there it has stayed since, lost from its kind, away from fulfilling what it had supposed, was its Purpose of life.
So it stays as a little mist, a halo, in the centre of this towering maze of glacier rivulets and waterfalls where hikers can sit under.
In the middle of the mountain facing a marshy shoreline, it's the little heaven this tiny cloud was meant to bring.
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