fungal tapeworm,
snap of flutter
innerbelly desires and fleeting
butter limbs and tight rope nosedives
I stir to capture these
in ***** of words
which always seems easier in forethought
or between eyelashes
or between ecstatic touch
and ecstatic breaths
or between undivided seconds that seem to last longer
than a mouthed ‘hello’
till the next as rose
tinged time passes as it pleases
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 4:55 AM UTC
Wakes up, she rummages through an overhead cupboard for some leaves. Overplayed mush on the radio, she turns on a ***** kettle. Lukewarm.
She puts her hand into a jar to retrieve a handful. Loose between her fingers, a memory.
She remembers how he rolled tea.
Jimi poster on a white wall, amidst smoke and rock and roll that hung in his chambers indefinately, defiantly. Books and books, Marley papers, flyers, tin foil, protracted dreams, the sort. His time was nonchalant, a little out of touch and oblivous to the one ticking outside (no windows). Well one but save a view of a narrow hole that was blocked by a chugging compressor; the sound of a nonexistent house guest until the desire to seek outside came to mind.
The sun is veiled again. She likes the grey. Not for its melancholic nature however. It jived somehow with her routine, she thought. Radio mush continues as the kettle begins purring.
iPod, cheap speakers, a laptop that hummed on the bright side of dim. So many songs.
Glow in the dark stars littered the wall next to Jimi. He said dreams hung on stars. Not noose but
like a bug on the underside of a leaf, clinging – till when she wondered.
Rain is coming little bug.
“Wake up”
She fluttered – angel-like, eyes a little grogged and gouged by too much sleep.
“What time is it?”
No such reply warrants. Phones are dead. Both under a pile of blankets like a premature burial. Cold, like their legs touching.
No facebook eulogy. Social media presence a little too truncated for her liking. Puts a newer form of private; that could only be unlatched by pokes that hurt, both ways. It would make both of them quiver which she would silently play in her head from time to time.
She shivered. Cold. It bit on the tips of her fingers. The kettle is close to a boil. She touches metallic just to feel it.
*******
Religion, he shared the room with though (much to her surprise). Spoke of eternity and suffering.
Whoever this god is ***** must have one hell of a sense of humour.
“Prance, you ******
Laughs, a longing sigh, a whistle follows.
The kettle calls. She remembers. Head drifts back from cloud fluff.
Leaves on the bottom of porcelain, meet the scald of hot water! They unfurl (giving in) and a dash of brown escapes, tickling her nose at the same time.
She went to fish out her phone to set the timer.
3 minutes.
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 4:42 AM UTC
To taste the red burst of rippened tomatoes
that catch a summer's glee whose
shouts run down airconditioned malls of daffodils
to reach butterscotch ends
To catch naive dewdrops on their final wave
-- gleeful regardless of their fleeting demise
on leaffy budettes as they hitchhike on blushing shins
that touch for just a second
To receive the cricket's call
and hang on their every word like
how the stars do on the night sky velvet
hung taut to stop the dreamer's upward freefall
To reverbrate down hymns
and ***** pipes whose rust subdued
by caramel oaken spirits and
cigars rolled with rebellion
To watch the twinkle of eyes
that unroll before me cinemated
like the rhythmic popping of corn seeds
and the anticipation of childlike hands
To surf the last yawn and sigh
whose ebb and flow crash on
pristine beds -- that soothes and prickles the ears
where the mind remains calm and restless
To sit with 4am and drink
tea or coffee (whichever it desires)
and have hours of conversation before
its teary depature
To the pilgrims' call of the first train
The satisfaction of staying vigil
simmers in the insomniac's stovetop
that seems to be low on gas
The need of slumber seems trivial at most
for dreaming has never known the diffrence
between being awake or asleep
or could this just be my mind that flurries
like jackrabbit thumps and heffalump nightmares
and honey dripping down my boyish chin
and mother napkins and lush lullabies
that whisper "go to sleep"
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 8:14 AM UTC