Lamp light
Dappled, it dances
Like my hands
Over skin.
Into dimples it soars
As I work to erase lost time.
His back seethes
It is the harbour
It is the well
It is the safe,
Where his darkness
Comes to lie.
I traverse
Slowly, gently
Fingers slide and grind
He sighs.
I see our worlds diverge and then
Collide.
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 4:11 AM UTC
A baby.
No more than
7 or 8 months
Weighing less
Than his prescribed
9 or 10 kilos.
A baby.
With nothing more
Than his immediate
Sighs for food
Reaches
Grabs
Wails
For the boot.
The old boot
With its muddied laces
Its faded tongue
Its infinite miles.
A mother
Scoops
The baby
Puts him to her breast
And believes him satisfied.
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 4:06 AM UTC
I see him on film
I developed him all wrong
Now he's a negative.
Cross processed by her,
And then hung on a wall
Bound by a wooden frame.
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 4:04 AM UTC
She swoops,
the talons of her barbed words
sinking like weights
through his delicate porcelain skin.
Snarling,
baring the oh-so-sparkling canines
usually reserved for tearing flesh
from bone,
she persists in stopping
his
ironic descent into manhood in its tracks.
What shall she do
when met with a crossroads?
A strange thought for one taught to give up.
Her rampage ends abruptly
a torrent of sweeping water that
renews trodden patches of
disturbed sand,
she embraces him, her son
and through rasping tears, begs for him to smile.
Tentatively,
he twitches
the corners
of his chapped lips
upwards,
praying, hoping, wishing
he has what it takes to pacify her.
Pressing her salty-as-the-sea
cherubed cheeks against his,
(inheritance is a beautiful thing)
the melted particles
of what once belonged to
her
browning
orbs sink into the grooves of his
laboured smile.
She hoarsely whispers,"Bigger my boy, I need to see".
A sick delusion
Was harboured.
Searching her son's
swimming eyes
she pulls at her ragged robes.
He can't do it.
They both know it
despite the pearly,
reflective teeth that lay whimpering within the cavern of his mouth.
They were of course, fabricated moulds of
pent up, angry, volatile chemicals,
a circus of reactions and catalytic encounters.
He doesn't want this madness.
May 26, 2012
May 26, 2012 at 9:18 AM UTC
Challenging.
Cyclical, up-down, up-down.
The pattern strikes a resonant chord.
Not a sweet melody,
discordant, at best.
Awkward. Spiralling. Lose control of the reins.
Allow the stallion of your mind the freedom to roam.
Across the plains you howl like the wind, blowing everything to pieces.
It's supposed to be a resolution. But there is no resolute finality.
No luxury here,
not even in the tenor that is death.
Follow the arrows.
It's a world of oppressive strain and perspiring, melting mountains.
Stallion?
She manipulates you into a quivering invertebrate.
The storm cackles,
the whip cracks and
the universe devours you.
May 26, 2012
May 26, 2012 at 9:15 AM UTC
The old men
Gather around
Weathered, frayed hats
Try in vain
To protect their
Weather, frayed skin
The sun beats down
Oppressive to us
A beacon of life
To them
I see
They are engaged
In a battle
Of strategy, wits and steel
They play cards.
What else is there to do
When the egg timer of life
Is about
To drop its final grain?
May 26, 2012
May 26, 2012 at 9:09 AM UTC
Oops!
I dropped my pen.
Now you will have to admire,
I mean,
watch
As I pick it up.
Oops!
I let you know
That I enjoy
I mean,
abhor
The objectification of women.
Well,
woman,
well,
me.
If you can call an 18 year old girl,
a woman.
May 26, 2012
May 26, 2012 at 9:05 AM UTC