Tell me why it has to be this way. I don’t want to hold on to one side of this conversation and have the other person falling off a ladder. Yeah, down there on the ground. Get up and look at me!
      I wasn’t sleeping, I swear—he said hastily.
Yeah, whatever, buddy. Tell me what you’re doing in my head?
      Repainting. Repainting over the old spots, the worn out spots.
But those are the best spots, the only ones with character. Can you tell me who sent you?
      No sir, I cannot.
Then it is ok. I suppose I’ll have to watch as you put varnish on top of every dream and aspiration I have ever had. Do you know who the girl was that I first loved in the springtime of youth’s blossom?
    It was Ashley, sir.
I believe I did not love her, guest worker. What are you wearing there?
    A pair of overalls, a cape. What’s the difference?
I’m the one who speaks to you first, and don’t be short with me. I don’t like you standing there in an open room with no windows. How is that possible?
    I’m sorry, boss. It’s just, I finished painting over that memory but the paint’s still wet. You loved her very much, I’m afraid.
    Ashley? I never gave her a second thought. Perhaps you are right. I only remember kissing her shyly and asking permission to see her *******. They were the biggest of all.
      Yes sir, I thought so too. She was a sweet girl though.
Sweet? I’ll tell you Mr. Painter; Ashley was the first girl I kissed. I kissed her in my first love’s house, a different girl. I loved Ashley more than that first love and I’m serious. No one can ever make me forget the day we lay on her mother’s sofa in the basement.
      --I’m sorry, sir.
No, say it is impossible. Say you have some form of soap that can make up for your treachery!
     No, I’m only wearing orange overalls and marching on the word from above.
But who sent you!!!? I have to know. I’m crying.
    Justin, it’s ok. It’s Ashley. She said you need to stop crying. She has a family now.
Well, alright. That house. That basement. That unconscious.
    We are worms, sir. Worms, slithering and boundless. Please accept my apologies.
No, it’s quite alright. If you must take every memory of my second love, take my third. And take my fourth and every other woman who crosses my path. It’s not my choice to keep them captive in the imagination of what could have been. You know, it’s been years since I truly cared about someone—
    Since Ashley?
Who’s that?
    Ashley.
Goodbye forever, harlot.
    Sir, you’re being brash.
No, I don’t remember that name and I hold you at an arm’s length in my mind. Please, finish what you’re doing and allow me to rest. What color are you painting the room?
    Green, I’m afraid.
Then so it is. Goodbye, good friend. Goodbye sweet love. Forever, in the spring. Temporal boundaries and endless playlists. Be the verve, be the melody. I love you!
     So it is. Sleep well, sir.

Colours have faded
off the walls
but the walls remain.

The gleaming moonshine on your hair,
fragmented star splitters in your eye,
your smile repainting supernova's glare
appoint you the ruler of my sky.

You don't think like me
And I don't think like you
But it seems to me
We're both *******.

We can do the math
In our various ways
And we sum the total
To the end of days.

I am right
And you are wrong
But you'll play the numbers
Like it's all your song.

I don't care
So long as they hear
The same sad song
Of everything going wrong.

But you spin out the bliss
Like a drunken fairy wish
Disregarding all the facts
And sending us all back.

It's a redo, people
**** the ice age
Get reacquainted with your dogs
And repaint the steeples.

She visits us every time
The building needs repainting
And every time she visits us
We ask her:

“When will you be back?”

You say you will only be
A jeepney ride away.

We sing; the choral chimes with the wind.
Dry leaves always settle down
Where the wind stops.
Only it does not. But, it settles, and always
Wherever the wind leads them to grow

Apart.

Maybe that’s the purpose of apartments.
Always seeming to leave, to stay only
For sleep, not rest.

We kept talking every time
How our phones ring each other.
You answer questions, always you do so
Not with a no, it was difficult for you;
Nor a yes; but always you say:

“I’m right here”

“5 minutes”

passing through regular public commute;
you are always nearby,
always stuck in heavy traffic.
I can even see you every time,
Always there,
And always smiling.

The last time we smiled together
You told us:

“I am always here – a whisper away”

Only you are there

Not here.

(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / July 25 2013 - Parañaque)

I paint my fingernails
A fresh coat of polish
I cannot afford a construction
Cannot, in this state
Fix my life
So I repaint myself
The tips of my fingers
Now a lavish turquoise
In hopes that by alienating my fingers
I will be able to alienate myself
From myself.

By nabs

There's a girl dancing to the music of life.
Summer eyes, summer child.
Playing air guitar with imagination,
drumming her little feet to the earth.

Dancing her own little rituals.
Hops and twirls. Giggling.
Jumping and clapping,
letting the joy course through her little body.

The girl grinned impishly at me,
mischievous glint in her eyes.
She run towards me and grabs my hand,
whisking me away to dance.

Each spins and hops,
Taught me how to laugh.
How to stop and wonder and dream and dream.
How to let life be breathtaking.

I didn't realize I had forgotten the simplicity of joy.

There's a little boy with sparrow wings.
Woven from the stars and the shadow.
Hands full of carefully gathered sand,
golden golden sand.

He let them go, slipping through his finger tips,
watching them get swooped away by the wind.

"Why do you do that?"
The question slipped out of my mouth.
Like an eager bird flying for the first time.
That startled me.

I thought I had long forgotten how to let my questions out.

The boy gaze at me,
His eyes swirls like oil spills
with it striking rainbows that looks
young and old on his face.

He doesn't smile, he doesn't need to.

He take my hand and guide it towards the ground,
sinking it down the golden golden sand.
Gently closing my fingers to cup at them.
They feel soft, like silk and lips.

They tickle and I loosen my grasp.

As each grain flies away from my clutch,
Flashes of images floods my mind
like a storm of wings, each
was made from memories and carries feeling.

The birth of a daughter seen by the father,
the first time someone went to the sea,
the giddiness of two people falling in love,
the sunshine reflected on your eyes.

A hand brushed a stray tear away.
The boy doesn't smile, he doesn't need to.
I didn't realize I was crying.
He looked at me and I understand.

Like little kids saying goodbye to their friends,
Memories are meant to be let go.
To not clutch them tight as to not destroy them.
Memories are too easily tainted.

So I open my palms again and said goodbye.
I'll know they'll come back, like little kids know
their friend will be back the next day.

I have never felt this free before.

There is a baby with a tuft of black hair on top.
Bundled with innocence and wonder.
She had her eyes open, she giggled.
It's her first laugh, it sparkles like fairies.

I picked her up and hold her close to me.

I run and run and run until
there's wing on my back.
Taking a leap of faith, and jump.

Soaring toward the blue blue skies for the stars
with life pumping through my veins.

there are vanilla scented candles
and plaid scarves,
acrylic paints of every ******* colour
and wool socks,
a closet full of pretty dresses
and a bookshelf full of good reads
but I’m not happy

there is laughing
there is smiling
there is feeling good
sometimes
but I’m so unsatisfied
with what I’ve got
though I seem to have just about
everything

I have a good mother
I have friends that care
I have blankets
I have good teeth
I have rubber boots
some people say I have nice legs
I have compassion
I have the drive to create
I have trees
I have long hair
some people say I have kindness
I have a bus pass
I have a new job
I have flexibility
I have enough money
some people say I have talent
but I’m unappreciative
and ******* myself  
still

there are booked gigs
and improv shows,
interesting conversations
and instruments,
trees and leaves and twigs
and pinecones,
the sky,
the zoo,
the cafes
but I get insecure most of the time

there are long hot baths
and biting nails,
then painting nails,
then repainting nails
and biding time,
then hating time,
then being okay with time,
there are long stares in the mirror
sometimes glares
sometimes there are puffy eyes
there is frustration
in my fingers
in my head
in my voice
at the piano
on stage
being vulnerable in a crowd of cool actors and musicians
fear of being seen
fear of being unseen
fear of doing it WRONG
fear of looking stupid
looking ugly
looking pathetic
sounding stupid
sounding ugly
sounding pathetic

there are dreams of leaving
this city
this head
these people I have known
for what seems like forever
there are dreams of healing
and loving my skin
and the natural amount of fat
that is underneath it
there are dreams out there
there are so many of them
that I’m afraid to wish
that I’m afraid to think of
from caution of them not happening
from caution of disappointment
and loneliness
and neediness,
then purposelessness

there is wanting
and wanting
and wanting
something better
I don’t know what
just something better
but waiting
and waiting
and waiting
for it to come to me
instead of
trying
and going
and getting
it myself

Tear out my eyes
repainting them shades of purple puke
and send me off back to work
Snip the curious child
from my gut
and paint the walls pink with his feet
pour drano into my ears
so that i may not have to think anymore
lobotomize my fingernail biting fetishes
till i only get hard-on's from my skull
dragging its skin across the pavement
you pitiful excuse for a poet
you hope to dazzle them with dayglo frosting
caked like mold in the corners of your mouth
you sick hopeless perfectionist
knitting cellophane walls
of hands slapping your face
so you can close your eyes
and lose yourself in the confines
of your stalagmites
you with your cut and paste philosophies
which leave gaping holes
stretching across everybody's pupils
huh?
exactly you ******* pustule of plastic bubbles
you are an empty bud
no flower could rise from soil as rank as yours
no love will ever find comfort in a heart as prickly as yours
i can only be ashamed
that i share your body
i'm better off getting aborted
next time you sneeze
so that i could infect another's fragile flesh
passing our sick parasite
at least something of yours will be left
for others to cherish

liturgical language of wind whispers in the pines.
the sky filled with the pearly puffs of Her word.
the hymnal call of the mountains.
angles rise from the depths of lakes.
the taps of rain on the ground proclaim the Almighty.
cavernous churches entombed within the minerals
of Her love.
upon Her watery canvas She paints portraits
of Her ardent, blue dreams of eyes, and erases them
with each passing kernel of time
repainting them just as fast.
paradise.
pinnacle of unselfish endeavors.
untainted beauty encapsulated in Her smile
She is good; She is infinite; She is yes.
my only escape,
ever-faithful,
unchanging beauty.
all is held within the womb of Nature,
waiting for birthing death into the ethereal.
thank god for Nature.

Captain,
suit jacket still beneath your tremor-less hands,
dark jeans as classy as any suit,
blue and black tie radiating calmness,
confidence,
you are our best.

Captain,
how you speak with such careless finesse,
words painting a picture and cutting it to shreds
and repainting it in new light,
you respond and counter questions,
a mongoose attacking an ancient cobra,
striking, winning,
grinning and frowning in perfect rhythm,
ever in control.

Captain,
you cannot win an uphill battle
when your opponent walks on air,
when spectators throw to them machine guns
and step on your fallen spears,
nor can your army
(ever willing, ever ready)
fight without you and your words
drilling through enemy lines,
ever calm,
confident.

Captain,
I have suffered the sting of defeat,
as have we all,
and I have felt the shame and fear
that flows in your blood as you hear the result,
and I see the look in your eyes
as you walk, ever steady, from the room,
foot itching to kick the walls with your radiant deliberateness,
and then you come back,
the look in your eyes one of exhaustion,
for you are tired,
Captain.

Captain,
rest your mind, hold your tongue,
let sleep and lethargy be your's for a day,
for the weekend,
for we all shall,
we, your army, who are tired and worn
from the conflict,
who have come out as victors or failures
and who cry in your dreary shadow.

Captain,
ten days remain till next we fight,
papers as swords and numbers as shields
beneath fire from questions like missiles
which we must deflect,
somehow,
and we will be ready, Captain,
we, your army,
in our suit jackets and clicking heals,
will lead you as you lead us:
to victory.

Packetfuls of some morning long gone
Celebrations of some relations long lost
Appraisals of youth long withered
Dying of some laughter long forgotten
Yellowed photographs newly rediscovered.

As if after the hesitation of two decades
They’ve resurfaced out of a rusty old box
Freshly etching old patterns, repainting innocence
A revision of life… what if….what if not….
Some strange spirit of myself smiles back at me

“Is that me?” leading on to “Who am I?”
Existential discomfort set alight
The sleepless questions- twisting and turning
Memories in my head- swimming and swirling

- Vijayalakshmi Harish
     16/06/2007
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish

.Daylight rolls off sequestered petals of the rose,dewdrops smile with guilt in their teeth.Shoulders of the road bend, aching withasphalt arthritis.A blind dog crossed the autobahn at high noon,kidneys and intestines criss and cross the double yellow line-like skull and cross-bones. Fur knocks down butterfliesas archangels drop a line into the river Styx."Come sail away!", I heard one say as a small fish escapedthe wrath of hook-in-mouth hell. Amen!Goodbye jolly roger. That has to hurt.I've always said,"Peeling paint only looks good to the professionaltrying to make a buck repainting." Honestly.Yet, a bucket full of fragrant flopping fishsits out back of an abortion clinic,( or was that fish?)while only static played on every FM station.The world wasn't prepared forMozart's misery.

382 days and counting
Since I've last seen you
Not a day has gone by since then
That I don't incredibly miss you
Hardly a single breath of fresh air has been
Inhaled without even the slightest hint of you
And all I seem to do is drink more without you

382 days checked off the calendar but I still keep waiting
Anticipating for the morning I wake up when I'm no longer waiting
Waiting to let go or the day I stop wasting
Wasting these days away, erasing the images I keep repainting
Beautiful mural images all over my mind and I can't  stop retracing
Remembering all of our bitter night endings
are better than this empty bed that I'm facing

382 days have passed and I'm trying to let go
Clenching my fists toward my stomach and taking a blow
Pulling my hair out from the roots just to watch it regrow
Smiling in front of the world and screaming into my pillow
Going crazy and wishing I could go back to 382 days ago.

You lay sleeping upon my arm
your hair
repainting old tattoos
with soft
new shapes...

your warm breath
re-writing old messages
with fresh
I love you's.

My life reformed forever
in this quiet moment alone
watching you sleep  
my favourite
tattoo.

waking up without a care,
flannel unbuttoned in the sun,
freedom's overgrown hair,
barefoot until winter has won.

repainting the streets with my board
when all the cars have gone to sleep
exploring abandoned buildings
with flashlights and reckless fear.

who cares about tomorrow
as long as I make it today?
Forever is living in the moment
and realizing the future will never come.

I miss home
and all that used to be.
I miss those things
which will never return.

*m.w.

Tonight my anxiety is too bad to sleep
so I am repainting the walls of my heart,
so long over-due
and I have already decorated pink
over the scars you left,
and blue
on the fresh wounds
he cut me with tonight
and I've put both your names in the shredder,
because I just tidied up the living space
and I'm through
with all this ******* chaos.

I tried to imagine leaving,
And all I could think of was coming back.
It’s not so much that the idea of departure frightens me,
I can easily imagine existing somewhere else,
I just cannot picture my home existing without me,
Call me self centered if you will.
Just answer me this,
What would become of my room?
There is so much of me in there,
Permanent fixtures that would annoy anyone.
My friends painted on the walls,
Ink staining my carpet,
The broken power outlets, used to such extent that all cords must be at a certain angle to work,
To me these things mean home,
To anyone else they would be annoyance in need of repair.
I think of all the effort it would take to expel my presence from my room,
The repainting, recarpeting, redoing, just to get me out,
Would it be worth the effort?
Then I think of the holes I’ll leave behind me.
The books I’ll have to take with me,
Because leaving even one dog-eared whether worn volume is an utter impossibility.
That alone will leave my room nearly empty.
What about the smell of a freshly baked dessert
Will my pie tins be forced into early retirement?
Or even worse,
Will my lovely dishes be sold?
Given to someone who doesn’t appreciate their scorch marks and abundant cracks.
Will my parents try to fill my rickety bookshelf with their own alien tombs?
The thought disgust me, like if someone else were to use my toothbrush.
But worse than the holes I’ll leave are the things I cannot take with me,
The view from my window,
The prodigal richness of my meadow in spring,
The sledding hill in winter.
For every season, very month, practically everyday there is some joy,
Will I ever be able to recover from the loss?
Yet the core of my being seems to call me away,
Begs me to ascend beyond this cluttered and twisted reminiscence of childhood,
This broken version of a shrinking paradise, to small, to old, to painfully familiar.
Is that what home really,
Somewhere so lived in you cannot bear to leave,
or comprehend staying?

in your own world
repainting the walls
dying your hair
combatting the urge to make it all fall.
how I could make you see
this isn’t a limited belief
silent
your expectations of me

Pull your mask out
Let your guard down,
You need not hide anymore
I see you for who you are
Not what I desire to see you as
And I've got to say:
From where I'm standing
You couldn't be more bare.

Finally, stripped off of your facade
I see you for what you are
You're just as clueless as I:
Here to discover life!

Now, let's take this plunge into the abyss
And realize all our forgotten realities,
Sketch on each other's silences, we will,
For repainting these faded colors is fill;
For we know: time there's none absolute
But for our time together made of absolutes.

They always say not to let your happiness
Be dependent on something
Or someone
That can leave in an instant
But that's exactly what I find myself doing.
You are the cause of my smile
And the repellent of my frown.
The way your touch covers me
In a seran wrap layer of
Happiness that warms me
Both inside and out,
The way your voice ignites
A fire in my cheeks
And unlocks the cage to a million insects
That fly around my intestines
Bumping into the walls of my organs,
That is something I have become dependent on.
I don't do this,
I don't let down my walls
Usually.
But then you came in,
And knocked them down with every sledgehammer of a smile,
Every bulldozer of a kiss,
And now you're the remodeling team,
Repainting
And heating
The darkest room in the house.

decided why waiting, my name, my curse, my retrocognition,
last week, was sore-spent, from abusing discontinuation, retribution,
lovers who took more, too much, left contentedly, not looking back
over their shoulder, at the wasted wake left behind, nothing to them

just was their “been here, now, just a hereafter” remainder reminder

can’t believe I’m writing, in these blues lyrics electrified,
my ribs, plucked like guitar strings for “pic”ing demand wailing,
my own hereafter starts now, past days eradicated, freshened up,
these aren’t the days of reminiscing, these are the days of  no más!

of my hereafter, now I understand, did not know how, clarity arrived

but now will love only in equality, no worshiping, no portraits
to be admired  hanging on hallway walls, got rollers and pan,
repainting walls crazy whites, starting again, coming out today,
the hiding separated, put in trash bags on the street, for takeaway

in crazy notions, commencing my hereafter, is inviting you,
join me, improve my cadence, my rhymes, finish my sentences,
with periods of laughter, commas of words of perfect additions,
waiting no more, from here after and ever more so, my name

hereafter, is now my retrofitted futures, no longer waiting...

Time to drop the baton
to step aside
and let the rat race go on.

If you can't see it
you're not looking.

can't be bothered to swear
so I'll yawn instead and
drag my bones out of bed,

Friday
coffee
wash
dress and off he goes
again..

You got that plastic smile
And that painted facade
Showin off your guile
You think you're ****** god
Your minions bow
To the poster child
To the spokesman now
For egos gone wild
But when you step off stage
And that mask comes off
You're just filled with rage
Cause you been slackin off
You stand for nothin
But you preach it all the same
Now people know you're bluffin
And its destroyin your fame
They're callin you fake
They're callin you out
It makes your heart break
Yeah it makes you doubt
If your friends are really friends
Or if its all a scam
If they're goin to all ends
To see that you sank instead of swam
So you're repainting your face
And com in back to your pulpit
Joinin a new race
Where you're no longer a culprit
But soon enough its all the same
A whole new group
Has figured out your game
Quick as if the last one  gave em the scoop
Now you're developin a rep
And kid it ain't a good one
Always behind half a step
Its been so long since you've won
So now you're lookin deep inside
Tryna figure out what's wrong
Tryna figure out what to hide
But you've just been lyin all along
Lyin to yourself
Lyin to your crew
But now you're dropping lies on the shelf
And becomin someone new
So when you look in that mirror
You'll like what you see
Now that person's gettin clearer
Yeah that person's breakin free

They say two is better than one.
After meeting you,
that saying finally has meaning.
Imagine a painting of a world
in which everything exists in gloomy shades of grey,
a world in which colors no longer reside after long, weary years.  
This is a place where the word “happy,” has no home in the dictionary.  
Now imagine a new artist comes along,
repainting everything in the brightest colors they can find.
Grass is turned an emerald green,
the sky is a beautiful baby blue,
and the sun now lives in the top corner at all times.  
This, my dear, is how you have made me feel.
You brought your own ideas into my dull world and
all at once,
everything regained color.

All I've seen
are legs

of the bloke
upstairs

believe me,
they are snappable

I've knocked
his door

he doesn't
answer

loots
my calm
with his
bass enhancer

Look,

I'm an affable
kind of guy,
but ..

this ******
is testing my
patience

I want him
to die

Not so he rots
in a puddle of snot

-I still claim a frisson of feeling-

plus I don't want the hell
of that festering smell
or the pain of repainting
the ceiling...

I don't try
to be mean,
to stir-up a scene
but the grinning is
hard to pretend,

so I'll sit on my hands
and mutter those plans
for that thin *******
to end.

We have risen from dirt
To be stewards of earth
To account for all life
Free of value or worth

Evergreen in our growth
To divine suns of truth
Chlorophylling our minds
With a fountain of youth

Still losing ourselves
In an arboreality
Nurturing seeds
Of an elementality  

One of sequoias
Who weep with the willows
And make their leafbeds
Out of solid rock pillows

So spill your coal ash
In our wildest streams
You can't stop the flow
Of our lucid sea dreams

Repainting the blue
Iridescent with reefs
Transcending horizons
Of vision's motifs

Where Shamu think tanks
Dive deeper than whales
Exploring the depths
Of serpent shale scales

Who drill to our cores
As we quake with the force
Of Pompeiian eruptions
And wars of resource

I am not skilled yet, but I one day will be. I have much to learn in how to use the gifts that have been given to me. I sometimes feel that I am not ready to move on to the next place. I often question what I have done, and wonder if I have made a mistake. I want to be better than I was before. I would like to learn so much more. I refine my gifts each day as if I am repainting on the same canvas. Each time the picture becomes a little clearer. I am beholden to the master for his instruction. I want to be as good some day. First I must learn patients and then faith. Both of these things are essential to my success. When I have acquired both, then perhaps I will be ready. I will be able to step out on my own. Holding fast to the lessons learned from the master, and becoming a teacher myself.

what mind has eye to garden
          in a field of headrests ?
pulling up the tough weeds
          that manage off embalmers fluid
repainting plastic flowers for strangers families
reciting engraved names that amuse
          such as Clutterbuck and Storm Boyle
warden the valve
          that values the last breath
spike the ground with snorkels
           and thicken the atmosphere
           with mans garbage gases
what relief the earth would feel
           deflated of our bizarre bedding...
could we light them
           like the flames of factories ?