they called it the grey desert. there was nothing in it because people never came to this cursed land. nothing across the barren shifting shades of grey, except the soul of someone once desolate enough to plant it here. the chrysalis dangled precariously on the slender dried twig. it was a miracle that the strong winds of the sandstorms had not snapped the twigs nor broke the thin thread that attached the chrysalis to the dried bush. a miracle indeed, that the chrysalis remained undamaged...

it was, at first, just a small fine line on the crystalline grey surface of the pod. the fine line seemed to darken, as more fine lines branching out from the darkening streak... till the first spectrum poured out of the cracks, spilling colour into the monochrome landscape. the sands were filled a clayey red at once. the greyness of the sky was melted to a cerrulean blue, dabbed with white cotton wisps of clouds.

the chrysalis started to disintegrate into fragments. the black marble like exterior fell. each fragment hitting the ground with a resounding thud. each landing creating larger ring clouds of red dust all round, marking the expanding parameters of the sacred ground.

where the first shard of the shattered chrysalis fell to the ground, a spring bubbled cheerfully from the sands. where the second shard touched the ground, a cluster of frangrant desert roses and moonflowers, assorted cacti and desert greenery sprouted from the ground and flourished . where the third shard landed, a hill of quartz, in various clarity and hue, erupted from the ground and sparkled resplendently. where the fourth shard hit the ground, large felinous creatures prowled the sand. where the fifth shard fell, brightly coloured snakes burrowed out of the ground. where the sixth shard fell, jewel-toned birds flapped into existence. the seventh shard - a cherub gurgled mirthfully. the eighth shard fell into the spring. it dissolved and efferverscence filled the clear drink so that all who may drink from the spring may sing of beauty and truth. and that all who may wash from the spring may radiate with wisdom and true beauty.

the ninth, last and largest shard, dangled from the bush, with the once-desolate soul peering warily down. the soul gleaned with a shimmering sheen all over her naked body. she perched on the edge of the last shard, crouching over the ledge hesitantly. the soft warm interior of the chrysalis still radiated against her skin. she wavered then, resolutely, stretched the lacquered citrine wings against the cavern of the shard, and took the plunge...

the ninth shard did not fall to the ground. it remained on the bush. as soon as the citrine-winged lithe figure took to the air, the last shard shook and shivered behind her before it burst into a bright ball of fire. since then, it has hung its immortal greenish flame on the remnant bush...

the wind rushed past and lapped up the initial wetness of her body. it was awkward at first, the expanse of cool air rushing up against her skin. the space for movement made her giddy too. nevertheless, she soon got used to it. she spun around aerially, surveying the world that had been newly created.. she felt an odd sense of pride over the creatures and the land that laid in front of her eyes.

the baby still wriggled contentedly on the sand, palms opened and hands outstretched towards the figure hovering in midair. without warning, the citrine-winged being swooped down on the baby and took off to the skies again. she lifted him against her left breast and he gurgled contentedly into it, drooling as he made cooing noises. he was warm and wet against her bossom. she cradled him higher, so that she could nuzzle his face. the baby kicked happily, one small hand curling round the being's neck.

euphoria rushed through her veins, having felt the touch of skin. she held the baby even closer...

they called it the grey desert. there was nothing in it because people never came to this cursed land. nothing across the barren shifting shades of grey, except the soul of someone once desolate enough to plant it here. the chrysalis dangled precariously on the slender dried twig. it was a miracle that the strong winds of the sandstorms had not snapped the twigs nor broke the thin thread that attached the chrysalis to the dried bush. a miracle indeed, that the chrysalis remained undamaged...

it was, at first, just a small fine line on the crystalline grey surface of the pod. the fine line seemed to darken, more fine lines branching out from the darkening streak... till the first spectrum poured out of the cracks, spilling colour into the monochrome landscape. the sands were filled a clayey red at once. the greyness of the sky was melted to a cerrulean blue, dabbed with white cotton wisps of clouds.

where the first shard of the shattered chrysalis fell to the ground, a spring bubbled cheerfully from the sands. where the second shard touched the ground, a cluster of frangrant desert roses and moonflowers, assorted cacti and desert greenery sprouted from the ground and flourished . where the third shard landed, a hill of quartz, in various clarity and hue, erupted from the ground and sparkled resplendently. where the fourth shard hit the ground, large felinous creatures prowled the sand. where the fifth shard fell, brightly coloured snakes burrowed out of the ground. where the sixth shard fell, jewel-toned birds flapped into existence. the seventh shard - a cherub gurgled mirthfully. the eighth shard fell into the spring. it dissolved and efferverscence filled the clear drink so that all who may drink from the spring may sing of beauty and truth. and that all who may wash from the spring may radiate with wisdom and true beauty.

the ninth, last and largest shard, dangled from the bush, with the once-desolate soul peering warily down. the soul gleaned with a shimmering sheen all over her naked body. she perched on the edge of the last shard, crouching over the ledge hesitantly. the soft warmth of the inside of the chrysalis still radiated against her skin. she wavered then, resolutely, stretched the lacquered citrine wings against the cavern of the shard, and took the plunge...

the ninth shard did not fall to the ground. it remained on the bush. as soon as the citrine-winged lithe figure took to the air, the last shard shook and shivered behind her before it burst into a bright ball of fire. since then, it has hung its immortal greenish flame on the remnant bush.

you see a house atop a slope. even from this far, it looks pretty impressive. the house is surrounded a pale blue highwall and flanked by a majestic gate. the estate is not very young and is already starting to collect mildew. oddly, the greenish mildew seems to add a grandeur of age to the place.

you walk on the path to the house...

the house itself barely rises above the highwall, like a being beginning to ascend from watery depths. the house is two-storey-ed and has an attic. of what type it is, it is hard to say. the architecture is reminiscent of colonial times. with white-washed and pale blue shutter windows to match the wall. and yet it is not entirely colonial. pale blue seems a little off from the colonial era.

on the left of the house, a huge sycamore tree stands rooted to the ground.

as you walk uphill, you come closer to the estate and you realise that the highwall has depressed panels of carvings every ten to twelve metres in perimeter. you veer off the road leading to the gates to inspect the detail. each panel seems to depict a different scene. in one panel, you see three men paying tribute to a baby in a manger. the next, you see a woman of asian origin in flowing robes holding a vase containing a stalk in her hands. in another, you see a large serpent falling into the sea and steam hisses all around its flailing body while a half naked man stands triumhant. one very intrigueing panel that catches your eye is one showing nothing at all. you know not what to make of this. perhaps it is not yet finished? nevertheless, the blank panel unnerves you and you decide forgo the rest of the panels and hurry back to the main gates.

you stand before the main gates and you ring the doorbell. in your time waiting for a response, you study the gates. the gates are made of sturdy steel, painted black and mottled with silvery blue. the outline of an oriental dragon forms the gate's left. it is painted dark green. the dragon is folded and coiled many times into itself and its head is arched back ready to strike to its right. the right of the gates presents you a tiger in mid-movement, jumping down from on top to meet the dragon.

just as you draw near to touch the gates, it swings open from you and you are lead in by a stone path.

you walk right up the path of mosaic stones in concrete. it is a short path. you notice that the garage is open on the right and in it sits a black mustang, sleek as hell, waiting patiently to be brought out on a night of wild fun. you also notice that the big sycamore tree provides an outlet for a swing and shade for the porch on the right.

you hop onto the veranda and find yourself sinking a little and your feet caressed by smooth sand. you look down and to your amazement, the sand is black! the sand pit forms a slight meandering path across the porch. as you twiddle your toes in the shallow sand path you see five clay-red columns which remind you of athens. the columns they are chipped, cracked and somewhat eroded. the dimensions are right, a foot in diameter. four of the columns rise through the wooden platform of the veranda at the corners of the porch. they do not hold the roof of the veranda. instead, they end, perhaps, a few heads above you, looking like they were demolished by some otherwordly giant. the lone one stands next to the wooden park bench made of teak and wrought iron, ending off just before your waist. the lone pillar, similarly, shoots through the wooden veranda. it, however, ends with a proper flat squarish top of a greek pillar. on top of it, is a glass bowl. the glass bowl big and precisely semi-spherical. it is painted dark blue and has stars painted of medieval fashion on it. the bowl is filled with water and a lighted saffron candle in the stape of a star floats in it, emitting a warm glow with its flame.

Sunday, April 14, 2002


the rag doll to the heedless child by david harsent
i love you
with all my linen heart.

you cannot
know how these


rigid, lumpy arms
shudder in your grasp,


or what
tears dam up against


these blue eye-smudges at
your caprciousness.


at night i watch you sleep;
you'll never know


how i thrust my face
into the stream


of your warm breath;
and how


love-words choke me behind
this sewn-up mouth.

Thursday, April 18, 2002


suffocated,
by a knotting anxiety
stuck in my throat.

it won't come out,
no matter how i stick
my hand in to dig
it out.


it has suctioned itself,
on th side cavity of my throat.
frantic dig,
only lunch is excavated..


that knotting anxiety is still
there.


sick,
is th vomit
and th taste in my mouth.

posted by schadenfreude at 8:47 PM

Wednesday, May 01, 2002


elegy to a visageless phatom lover

in the dead of the night,
you assailed my mind...
you crept into my bed of thoughts,
gingerly pulled away my covers,
and coaxed me into making room for you
in my small cot.

i obliged, rational weakened
by the potent nectar of hypnos..
oblivious to my annoyance of sudden rousal,
you snuggled up, and i
held your warmth,
so that my lips were barely
touching your naked back;
one leg draped across your sleek body,
fingers traced your poreless skin,
breath settled on your flawless neck,
i cuddled close as i would my faceless bolster.

i laid with you -

were
still -

in the cradle of
gossamer-webs that morpheus spun -

sprung up and -

snapped -

and the vivid visage-less dream of a yesternight,
haunts me ever in daylight reverie.

posted by schadenfreude at 8:49 PM

blogostory.

manic depressive when i'm awake.
most of the time i'm slipping into the sleep of the living dead.
distant thunder trembles beneath me.
it's cold, dank, dark.
i smell the impending storm.
if i move, the clouds beneath me would break up and give way..
they say, only the dead don't move.
but the dead moved in my dreams.
am i dead in my own dream?
i'm so high up, no bird or soul can touch me now.
no shaft of light can break through
this primordial chaos that surrounds me now.
no speck of light shall be allowed..
to illuminate the loneliness for my eyes to see.
i'd lose my mind and thrash about..
and fall..
back starting where i ended it all.

and when you stick your tongue out to catch the rain..
would you savour my dissolving hope and feel my pain?

The Raven by Edgar Ellen Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore -
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping - rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door -
Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
This it is and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly yours forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping - tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you" - here I opened wide the door: -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" -

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore! -
Merely this and nothing more.

Then into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above this chamber door -
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before,"
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his Hope the melacholy burden bore
Of 'Never-nevermore.'"

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this Home by Horror haunted - tell me truly I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? tell me - tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore.
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting -
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting - still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a Demon that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

Quick and Bitter by Yehuda Amichai
Translated from the Hebrew by Assia Gutmann

The end was quick and bitter.
Slow and sweet was the time between us,
Slow and sweet were the nights
When my hands did not touch one another in despair
But with the love of your body
Which came between them.

And when I entered into you
It seemed then that great happiness
Could be measured with the precision
Of sharp pain. Quick and bitter.

Slow and sweet were the nights.
Now is as bitter and grinding as sand -
'We shall be sensible' and similar curses.

And as we stray further from love
We multiply the words,
Words and sentences long and orderly.
Had we remained together
We could have become a silence.

The Lamb by william blake

Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life and bid thee feed,
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing wooly bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice!
Little Lamb who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?

Little Lamb I'll tell thee,
Little Lamb I'll tell thee!
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb:
He is meek and he is mild,
He became a little child:

I a child and thou a lamb,
We are called by his name.
Little Lamb God bless thee.
Little Lamb God bless thee.

Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll (Charles Lutwidge Dodgson)

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the momeraths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws tht bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought -
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimbel in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the momeraths outgrabe.

Bitter-Sweet by george herbert
Ah, my dear angry Lord,
Since thou dost love, yet strike;
Cast down, yet help afford;
Sure I will do the like.

I will complain, yet praise;
I will bewail, approve;
And all my sour-sweet days
I will lament and love.

i loved you by Alexander Pushkin

I loved you; even now I may confess,
Some embers of my love their fire retain;
But do not let it cause you more distress,
I do not want to sadden you again.
Hopeless and tonguetied, yet I loved you dearly
With pangs the jealous and the timid know;
So tenderly I loved you, so sincerely,
I pray God grant another love you so.

The Typewriter Revolution by DJ Enright

The typeriter is crating
A revlootion in peotry
Pishing back the frontears
And apening up fresh feels
Unherd of by Done or Bleak
Mine is a Swetish Maid
Called FACIT
Others are OLIMPYA or ARUSTOCART
FRAMINTONG or LOLITEVVI
TAB e or not TAB e
i.e. the ?
Tygirl tygirl burning bride
Y, this is L
Nor-my-outfit
Anywan can od it
U 2 can b a
Tepot
C! *** stares and /// strips
Cloaca nd + -
Farty-far keys to suckcess!
A banus of +% for all futre peots!!
LSD & $$$
The trypewiter is cretin
A revultion in peotry
" "All nem r =" "
O how they pound away
@ UNDERWORDS and ALLIWETTIS
Without a.
FACIT cry I!!!

afterwards by thomas hardy

When the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay,
And the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings,
Delicate-filmed as new-spun silk, will the neighbours say,
"He was a man who used to notice such things"?

If it be in the dusk when, like an eyelid's soundless blink,
The dewfall-hawk comes crossing the shades to alight
Upon the wind-warped upland thorn, a gazer may think,
"To him this must have been a familiar sight."

If I pass during some nocturnal blackness, mothy and warm,
When the hedgehog travels furtively over the lawn,
One may say, "He strove that such innocent creatures should
come to no harm,
But he could do little for them; and now he is gone."

If, when hearing that I have been stilled at last, they stand
at the door,
Watching the full-starred heavens that winter sees,
Will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no more,
"He was one who had an eye for such mysteries"?

And will any say when my bell of quittance is heard in the gloom,
And a crossing breeze cuts a pause in its outrollings,
Till they rise again, as they were a new bell's boom,
"He hears it not now, but used to notice such things"?

he wishes for cloths of heaven by wb yeats

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

fragments of verse.

i hate all of you.
but i don't mean it...
how i can i hate?
when i can't even love.



maybe if i hurt myself enough,
you would take notice of me again.
but i won't.
because it isn't right.

i forgot what it's like to feel safe.
to feel as if even if the sky fell,
i'd be safe, unscathed.
i wonder if i'll ever feel like that ever again.
you left me here to burn
lonely incense and ask
nameless gods for strength
and serenity...
when the only religion i needed was you.


feel myself sinking deeper into the
grasping tentacles of earth..
what shall i say?
that i am happy?
nay. i'm not liar as you are.

ramblings.

and i'll try so hard to forget
but i'll never find rest.
people like me never find repose.
just moments of euphoria
induced by
people like you.
and the nurse (that nameless bitch),
she'll take you (my addiction) away.
moment of make-believe,
so safe in your arms,
i lost the will to move...
and when you tossed me out of your bed,
i just laid there on the
cold
floor.
no foetal postiion, no curling, no mewling.
just dead still.
eyes set on the ceiling.
you walk out.
the cultures circle in.
a big ugly wolf emerges from under
your bed.
sniffs. licks. places a paw where your hands loved to roam.
the nurse walks in.
wolf wags his tail.
she pets him, gives me a shot of anaesthetic
"just in case you change your mind, lovey."
walks out, shutting the door behind her.
i screamed (in my head)
but i guess you were too far to hear me.

wrote this before the last post. just posting this up cuz i liked it alot... loved the allusions. love absolutely using allusions... haha, call me an escapist. =p

stopped.

stopped.
crying.
loving.
crying again.
loving again.
because you stopped.
and i stopped too.
stopped.
abrupt.
go.
go. away.
go. away. because...
we stopped.
both you and i.
stopped.
crying.
loving.
crying again.
loving again.
stop. go. stop. go.
but stop going away.
it's not fair to both of
us
you. and i.
stop here.

one minute friend.

say
goodbye to the friend that you made yesterday.
both of you have glut up
enough of each others' world.
either that or you both catalysed
some irreversible change
in yourselves,
and you can't stand you.


go slow.
for when something
(or someone)
triggers a reaction,
we'll never know.
all we have is the moment of
self-proclaimed understanding
which others, too righteous,
in (hind)sight, call us hypocrites pretending.


stretch that moment,
into at least a week...
be merry,
be nice.
have an opinion,
but don't speak.
say naught things -
albeit the truth -
that people despise to hear.
for criticisings,
pay a price even storm-wrought-weather friends
find too dear.


say naught to
your one-minute friend
that he is wallowing in sadness
selfly achieved.
say naught to
your one-minute friend
that his madness
will cost him you.
for first, one-minute a friend, you are cheap.
and second, he is a raving lunatic, your advice,
though sincere,
he is in no mood to heed.


say naught to him
that he is loserish.
try naught either
to pull him together.
and yet when he fails,
nor do you tell him he is
of cesspit calibre.
for a one-minute friend
is not worth the bother.


stay
away
from him, however.
until your one-minute friend
is ready to embark once more on mirth and merry making.
yet i do believe,
you will not want him
after you have seen him weakly made.


run along.
there will always be fair-weather friends
enough to fill a few lifetimes' charades.


but pray you,
guide each other,
you and your friends of storm-wrought weather.
be they your peer, kith, kin,
father, mother, sister or brother,
swear to them your love
and smooth in caution
against the flaw of their character.

bubble

A bubble is blown,
tricks light
and traps a rainbow
in the air.

Fascinated child
Watches in awe.
Fearful that the magic moment
Might be broken.

She unclenches her hand, reach out
To hold the fragile sphere.
Only to break the thin membrane -
The rainbow's only shield.

The bubble bursts;
dreamy now is then.
Into this pigment-world,
The rainbow spills.

On the floor
The psychedelic colours mixed
A pool of
Murky brown.

And on sight
realising it has been ruined,
We cry like broken children...
We cry like broken children, inside.

jars of pickled humanity

i will not stuff my sentiments into little glass jars
only to hide them on the shelves
of a dank and dark closet,
under lock and key and away from scrutiny

as if they were - specimens of bluish unborn babies
and amber-eyed lizards and snakes
floating in ghoulish green liquid -
too horrific for your eyes.

there is nothing to hide.

look at the glass.
these bottles were meant to magnify,
knot your stomach
and hold your gaze.

and we were meant to
fall an easy victim to their hypnotic-fadedness,
spill more sickness all over the floor
and still study them with morbid fascination.

i do not always like the thoughts i keep.
i don't expect you to accept them either.
but at least i don't bury
the love, the hate and the in-between

and go to church
and pray fervently for absolution
and live in guilt
and hope that no one digs them up.

welcome anyway.

welcome to my exhibition,
my little museum of thoughts deformed
and thoughts sinister and slithery.
welcome to the collection of humanity preserved.

her stars

you cannot see
her.
her skin is as deep the blue
of our benighted sky.
you will not see
her eyes.
she has shut her eyelids over
her brilliant silver irises.
you will never see
the outline of her goddess-frame.
the clouds have gathered to guard
an eternal secret.

every once in a while,
she weeps -
i fathom it is
perhaps for those
who are lost
and will never come home -

and those tears,
knowing their reason,
evolve into sentient beings;
knowing their worth,
guise themselves as burning stars;
knowing their place,
glow in the velvet sky.

the stars do not know,
where who she cries for lies.
the light they radiate reminds
her lost ones to return.

the stars travel through time
and space
searching for the lost
ones that have forgotten
till they can move no more.

and so the stars, they plunge
themselves into incandescent death,
pointing the way home,
only hoping the lost finally remembers...

when they finally exhaust themselves,
they fall from their majestic lofts..
down
fast
trail blazing across the sky,
crashing to a watery death.
silvery waves rise violently
before caving in,
folding back into
a calm sea as deep the blue
of her benighted sky -
an ocean tomb seals the valiant dim-glow.

the stars sink,
sway to and fro,
downwards to the oceanbed
which is now their cradlebed.
pretty ocean nymphs,
knowing the chill of their abode,
knowing the honour worthy of the stars,
dive up to the surface,
to rip a piece of the warm velvet sky
and wrap snugly around
the fallen stars.
and the stars now cared for, are
lulled by the
rhythm of rocking waves...
contented to be dreaming of her
long lost smile.

online argument

your stream of texts flash across the screen,
my sharp reply crashes right into them.
more disagreeing words,
that throw themselves against mine.
i struggle to the surface of this stormy argument
and i shout against the thunderous boom
of the silence of your deliberated reply.


in an instant, i decide that i don't want this.
i sink down under the piling waves of your logic..
and i tell you that i don't want this -
the quiet aftermath of the storm
is a gnawing emptiness.

cradlegrave

[3/23/2002 12:57:48 AM | schades of gray]
the soul is dying,
but the heart beats on...
stop that reverberating heartbeat,
the will to live is long long gone.


behold the miracle
of a crying corpse:
remains convulsed, scalded by tears,
of one put to premature death by brute force...


as i lay herein,
my cradle-grave of dreams -
of continuous nightmares -
endless without seams.
dark gray fogs
into deep blue mists flow;
fears solidified and sounds amplified
here, only dark malignant ulcers grow.


somewhere above, they are heaping upon me
shovels full of worthless praise.
somewhere above, they are holding my wake.
somewhere above, they are sighing over my short-lived days.


my neighbour wraiths scratched,
against their coffin-wood decay;
they are the restless dead, wretched
souls left to shred and fray.
they are damned to eternal unrest
by their acts of ugly sin,
so they wail and protest, in hope of
a psychic saviour who perceives their din.


but the crowds above will never hear
these plangents pleas of grieving souls.
to them, the howls that split my relentless ear
are nothing more than the eerie silence of watchful ghouls.


somewhere above someone blows me a parting kiss.
it sinks down the dirt floor,
resting momentarily on my receiving lips
before plummeting furhter to the molten core.
"here lies hell's ultimate sinner."
somewhere above, someone spits on my grave.
somewhere above, my father blames my mother.


since there is nothing good left
that a broken vessel can hold,
it is time to turn away
and leave treacherous man the quest for gold.


and nowhere above does anyone weep.
blood tears stream down as i shut my senses to sleep.