Tuesday, May 29, 2012

A True Story

A True Story

Rolling as I was, in a tube of perpetual movement, arrogance and heat
Half standing half sitting, near the one who had nurtured me since birth,
Closer to creation, closer to love, closer to my mother,
the only god I know, that created me, no miracle, if only of life, that lays in question since that day.

A sudden and uncaring halt, a tensing of muscles,
A cry from in front “Allez vous a la Rue Claire monsieur?!”
The shriek of a crow, wearing it's funeral suit.
Turning, clearly did I see her,
Sharp and Alert,
In control, in her mind, of her mind, of this moment.

Her howling answered, annoyed look after annoyed look followed her to the front of the carriage,
no one saw my discreet helpings, a punching of tickets, a security pole that she might not slip off,
The seat, my mother gave her.
Who are you, was my first question, but only my mind heard it, as it heard my heart beating, as it, Perhaps, heard hers.

Her pink dress, reminiscent of childish dreams, the flowers woven in, reminiscent,
Of when she could,
See Them.
Words escaped her, words of the past, that, in my close proximity to her, stabilizing, sheltering,
heard with all its force, all its truth.
As such we talked, the bus passing all the landscapes that were so familiar, so reassuring,
as to be subdued by jealous society.

As she pointed and smiled, “Finally a student!”, I gazed at her whiskers, her white unwashed hair,
her dry lips, her countenance forming the purest and most natural waves of all,
Of age.
Then, I gazed into her eyes, where I saw who she was,
She had loved, she had feared, and as she told me stories of war, I said,
What a story you tell me” and uncontrolled, replied “No no, a true story”,
At this, her life was full ,and had been but a fraction told, happy as she was,
Pleased as was I.

Looks Had Gone From The Misery Of Life, To Seeings Its Wonder.

We are here said I, your stop,
And as I held her hand, I saw a small girl, as if in a dream,
Skipping wearing a pink dress with flowers,
And heard her heart yearn to be.

As we walked down the clear road of time, she refused to stop,
And as I was to leave, she pulled me down, close to her and said,
Half of me is dead, I was somewhere before, but now, I was supposed to die”
And she left, with the promise of a picture of Kennedy in Berlin, and of life.

Saturday, May 19, 2012

Decaying around the television

It is there, at the side, yet in the center,
Present in our life only by choice, destroying our life only by choice,
Stains outline it, vomit, a drunken frenzy.
Next to the window, a thin grey pram,
Fabric interwoven with cigarette ashes,
Milk and baby food, pure white, purely dark,
Spilled in the attempt to feed a restless child,
Miserable, flailing, a broken mirror laid in a corner,
Reflection of his life, without a voice, feeble.

After working skillful trades,
A sudden rage throwing a beer bottle, at contact the glass is shattered, the screen is fractured,
A shout, “the telly!!!”
In a desperate rush, now Feeble is pushed aside, a flimsy second-hand wooden high chair,
Falling in slow motion,
Strapped down, a prisoner, fragile face against solid ground, a broken tooth, untended, passive.
The buckle, cheap Chinese plastic,
Snaps, Sharp and toothy, feeble runs, crawling and clawing away.

The sun, a translucent yellowish red,
Shining eerily on the chaos,
The wallpaper pealing,
The plaster yellowing, browning,
The heat scorching, the walls sweating,
Leaking an assortment of excrement and urine,
Unseen, unattended,

Scurrying away, Feeble, on the floor,
Pushes an innocent palm on a cold rusting nail protruding from the floor board,
Yelling now,
Unnoticed always,
Perseverant, onward, in the hall, the heavily holed carpet, stained, vomit, alcohol, ashes,
A drop or two of blood, memory of an idealistic love,
Out the dog flap, decaying yellow plastic, wet and muddy,


Perseverant strides, four legged, through the untended garden, dry, dead, un-green,
Juddering like a small impatient train on rugged tracks.
The sun revealing, formidable, glaring at decaying house after decaying house,
At the edge of the driveway now, near the road.

The whoosh of a car,
The blurring of it's thick lights,
A strike of red!
A splatter of blood!

It had hit a pigeon.
The sun was still in the sky, close to the ground,
By the time it had gone down, Brave would be free,
And when it rose, maybe, just maybe, he would survive.

Thursday, May 17, 2012

 Dark Cave, Black as Smoke
The beast entered, growling, rumbling,
The caves dark interior, black
As a dead crow's feather.
It will be the demise of us all.

In desperate search for its toxic brew,
It demands its puppeteers approval.
One beast, another beast, and another,
Will the limitless numbers never stop?

Yes, they will, to the cost of their unreliable source.
A clowns nose blackened to the core,
Reddened to the blood that destroys
And renders oblivious.