March 28, 2007
Once upon a young green hill,
Lived an old grey witch,
Who talked far too much,
And cursed people,
For a morning greeting.
"Why is she evil Mama?",
I asked once,
"You see those men,
who walk in there?
She lures them with
a portion made from
the scent of her hair."
"Do you know why
they never come out?"
"Because she has them
for dinner Mama?"
That's what she does."
I watched the rusty house,
From my school window,
Wondering if she roasted them,
Or cooked them in a cauldron,
Filled with the scent of her hair.
Years passed, I bled and grew up,
My impatience heightened,
My senses intolerant,
The witch remained grey as ever,
Her home ate up rich young men.
My skirts grew shorter,
My mother weaker,
Her words more faint,
Till they followed her
Deep into her grave.
I was all alone,
My knowledge of little things,
Grew to be my only company,
The grey witch was grey as ever,
Her home ate up rich young men.
"Do not go up the hill!"
"Is it a deathwish?"
"Must be the death of her mom,"
Driving me to walk up,
The young green hill.
The oh-so-treacherous house
From a distance,
Seemed more pleasant
As I ascended and waded through,
Cheery flowers and eager snow.
I could hear her curses,
Through a tremendous clutter of stiles,
Men sang as she cursed,
Their voices more girdled than mine.
Her grey hair shone through spaces,
Her fragrance shifted the fence,
A step closer, a want deeper,
I longed to see through her defence.
The old grey witch,
The witch I knew,
Was an unfamiliar haze,
In my bare mind,
Here she was, her grey hair dazzling,
Young men yearning, her laughter breaking
Through the tremendous clutter of stiles.
I was home, I finally felt it,
My mother's words echoed,
"If you ever go up there,
You'll lose your little self,
Like the rich young men who never return."
I joined the orchestra,
Her grey hair dazzled,
Her grey hair swung gracefully,
As she cursed our melodies,
I had to sing, I had to love,
The scent of her hair
I like this place,
Lost and forgotten,
All mystery-drenched and whored,
I like her grey hair,
Her limitless curses,
My hands eternally stroke
March 25, 2007
When elements conspire,
I was at peace before
Science became the liar.
It's simple really,
These 24 hours in a day,
Their ritualistic walk,
As we sing in utter dismay.
Your stained soul,
Wets my fingers,
Beneath translucent wings,
Your doubts linger.
Your sanity is my discomfort,
Your explanations my silence,
You awaken, I disengage,
Under your truth, I wince.
The salad undone mid-air,
The tea reaches for your lips,
24 hours have come to an end,
All drained, the tea bag tips.
So much for conscience,
I know not what to say,
My fingers hold thy scent,
My lips your hours, your say.
March 23, 2007
Her urge to uncover you,
And taint frozen flesh.
My flesh just divulged,
Her itch to soak your faint heart,
Dissolve your questions.
My muscles sighed,
How they love to dismantle,
When I steal your words.
My blood shed small tears,
How they slipped from your fingers,
Before you kissed them.
My bones rattle not,
They found their peace within
Sheets of undoing.
March 22, 2007
March 18, 2007
'Whom would it hurt,' He asks me how,
I'll have to walk it anyways,
My land is too lonely to find home easy;
I think of you, I think of how I would have fought,
If you were around, I would have respected
I come home to find enlightenment flickering,
Behind what I thought was convenience,
My new shirt has a stain, it flickers on and off,
In a home that feels emptier when people come by.
I cannot tell them, how I've never seen you,
How I've never felt, hurt or tasted you,
I can never tell them how,
I would have washed the stain off,
If you were around.
The terrace embraces me,
The wind whistles past my face,
City lights begin to sleep in the distance,
And I wonder if the lamp by your bed side,
Slowly dies as the two of you make love.
After all you do know best,
After all you are the wiser one,
After all, I am just a child,
Who found herself, whilst lost in you.
So make love soft and tender,
Your body against hers flickering and fermenting,
In the wine of my baggage, my only light.
March 14, 2007
Dark brown strewn against a shy ray of sunlight,
My words against the inside singe,
Impressions of thoughts and sounds, hungry and quiet.
These words are my food, they are my trophies,
I hunt and pick them with care and hope,
They are my inspiration, my excuse to sigh,
To burn the world I know, to frequently elope.
I hate their stares, I hate their searching eyes,
I hate how this door withers through time,
I hate how these words cannot stay inside any longer,
That against a curious pen they chime.
Will these words grow out of their corners?
Only time and impatience can tell,
Will they fall or flow onto confessions,
I know not, till they decide to cat the bell.
My dreams beckon now, nightmares grin behind them,
I have made peace, they are not two but one at the core,
My past will foray into my present to create,
Ripples among words that singe against the withering door.
March 11, 2007
Maybe I won't walk away tomorrow,
I know not for sure my many promises,
But I do know the sequence ends,
The lines on your palm will change for sure,
Your forehead will wrinkle with time alone,
Moles on your tongue might disappear,
Into the many predictions of an inescapable future.
The breeze might not remain mellow,
Birds might bite along the way,
The ground may cease to follow,
Your various shades of grey.
Fine lines are a myth,
Sometimes I believe,
There's nothing too far crossed,
In a world of disbelief.
So wake with me today,
And somehow you'll come to know,
That today is just another tide,
Eddying and rippling through routine careless blows.
March 10, 2007
Under a pink-blue sky,
And thinking eyes,
I watch the blue light,
Flooding my breath,
Alcohol my lubricant,
To ease the pain,
Of watching laughter walk by,
Without calling my name.
A regretful baige sky now,
A lone tenant of a double bed,
Birds chirping in an odd hour,
Mockery, under my sheild I guess.
One voice and a million dreams,
One hope and a thousand regrets,
One love, one too many the pain,
One her, and that my problem be.
Time is fiction, time is a lie,
Time is the sound of a little weak sigh,
Time is a factor, a single silent scream,
The one that tears you up,
That bad midnight dream.
When scraping at the barrel,
The very bottom of the barrel,
Little wood chips disagree,
They stick to your spoon
And tell you about
How easy it is to just flee.
I got my back, I'll tell myself,
Even if a million passed by,
Morning's just another chirp away,
My insanity draws nigh.
March 2, 2007
Something about those dark winter evenings,
When the scent of dew on dry grass,
Mixed with the scent of her hesitation.
Something about sitting under a joyous creeper,
On stone parapets and fresh moss,
Breathing in air thick with elusive thoughts.
Something about sitting where I am today,
Romanticising about a past not too far away,
Wondering if it'll still be the same,
If we sat under the creeper and played the same game.