Wednesday, June 23, 2010

The daze of the weak

Today I am a lightbulb
an eyeball in the ceiling
burst of flame,
I spontaneously combust.

Pink and blue
left hands, matching
no step, no
is it a guarantee
to partake in
emptying the clock of seconds
slaves to the closed circuit.

A cavern of cheeks
the pirate ship
decaying treasure.

'X' marks the spot
a smile is a sunken
barrel of sand.

My Converse give me
through your eyes

I, who have disappeared from view.

Converse stuck in Mundane's mud
left behind from
monsoon rains

A hill tribe man may wear them

Converse. A Blue Angel label.

A turtle is the saddest animal in the world today.

A crow landed on his mobile house
and told him
he is not unique -
sea animals also have shells
and there is such thing as the sea
which he will never see.

From fear
grow wings
Flydy evening
sat in blue
outside the hospital.

Hearts paralyzed by spreading wings
the bird, released from captivity,
knows not how to fly
returns to its cage.
Roaring with tingles,
the tiger attempts a growl
but all that echoes is a whisper.

Knock the skull against the window
a fly buzzes, sawing away at the
Everest of hate.
Glaciers melt, hate and fear combine
Muscles of the wings atrophy

thou shalt not become a trophy

knowing is leading
lead the way
fly away

It is not the saddest day
but 'tis certainly one of the sadder ones.

Become an ostrich -
Bury your head in the dust.

(It can't be as bad as
listening to soft jazz remakes of 'YMCA' on repeat).


This is what happens,
listening to untruths in the hot street,
your cigarette ash feathers in the gutter.
We march onward, members of the French Foreign Legion, and enemies, one to the other.

A bird's nest of hair chokes, gags me to the sagging sheets and faraway disappearances on the balcony when I think the event an unoccurrence.

Must you come inside tonight?
How many other times I've wished your fingers twisted in mine,
your admiration, your lust.

One second, blind and crime scene to be tampered with, bottles clink in reunion on balcony, cigarette butts and trail of the underworld, a scent of goosebumps on thighs and smoky trail of black cap stuck in the bed cover.

Truths and untruths,
your past parallels my present state,
a liar smoking on the surface of reality.

An object, used, the "for rent" sign lies on the balcony.

I have morphed into the unavoidable,
the state of the slug drowning in
a hot drug,
triangle of tears.

Sunday, June 13, 2010

torn flag

The profiles of the people on the beach
wrapped in skin-licking bikinis and sarongs with Indonesian patterns
and the man with his sunglasses on, reading the book but actually staring at breasts through tented lenses. They chat, sitting under pine trees that reach close to the beach.

Pine trees on a beach?

They stand close enough to breathe and drink the salt air and absorb life through the tourists' eyes. These trees who drape the beach with their tall fixtures already know where they are in life but look to the human tourists as a sort of amusement.

To the left, the bird calls his friend, and to the right, the engine roars and the race along the beach has rolled up tunnels of energy. It's like the energy contained in human beings; it is constant in its roaring and eating of carrion.

Nothing will be satisfied in this way, yet the ocean cannot retire and blame the ageing process.

The young man carries a pint of piss-colored beer and walks out into the sun. He stretches his head upward and moves his shoulders back, the muscles in his back accentuating his skeleton. Enough of the sun and turn position to lying down on the hotel-provided gray towel, eyes closed and facial expression appears as though everything is in its proper place, 2-day beard growth included. He rests his arm on the plastic beach chair's armrest.

Around his right wrist is a handmade bracelet, likely bought on a street corner in Bangkok. He wears waterproof gray shorts, nearly knee-length. Some would consider him handsome, athletic. He appears to be in a slumber and is perhaps contemplating, or just resting, thinking of emptiness.

Those who spend hours in deep sleep become a part of the world of slumber.

The torn flag, colors red, white and blue, wraps tightly around its pole, just as the domineering husband wraps his fingers 'round his wife's neck.

The holes and the torn bits and the swells in the heart that subside only with time and yet this process still does not lead to the cure. A man in his navy-blue Speedo and plastic sandals walks underneath the torn illusion of a nation. He does not know where he goes.

At the feet of the slumbering young man, someone is selling patterned sarongs.

My toes look like twigs, twisted to the sand, and the black nail polish wares down. It looks grotesque.

The tailor, with his shop on the beach, perhaps he is Indian or from Myanmar, though his nationality to me is uncertain, kicks around a flat soccerball, barefoot, across the sand, under the shade of the pine trees. The sand is prickly with Durian-shaped mini pinecones, and a tiny ant is attacking my toe. He likely does not approve of my toenail polish.

The husband and wife talk quietly to one another, while the wife dreams to herself of being a wandering yogi. The ageing tourists, their fronts pushed down by gravity, waddle past. They do not harm the surface.

The old British lady bends down with toil to reach the hose to water down her sandy feet. She wears a straw sunhat surrounded by a black ribbon. She walks toward her hotel room, followed by her husband of many years.

At the water hose, two Asians appear, then disappear. One wears a white Polo Speedo, 'Polo' in white across the butt cheeks. The other wears long swim shorts and drapes a blue towel across his shoulders. They are gone.

The Thai man in his shorts, t-shirt, and bare feet reads with interest a book in the shade of the awning of the tailor's shop. He looks like he could be a runner with his drawn-out muscles. He turns the page.

The Indian tailor kicks the soccerball against the pine tree and the young man who was lying down stands up again and relocated. I look at the Indian tailor. He looks back at me.

The puppy to the right emerges from his sleeping spot under the tree. He has a jinglebell collar round his neck and sits upright, gazing at the Indian tailor with the soccerball who calls to Ricky and the dog follows his voice.

The universe melts into another, in tandem with the heat of the afternoon and the roar of the curvaceous sea. I am in a previous universe, walking alone through Primrose Hill. It is May and I walk through the path that's centered between two bare fields in the middle of the city, surrounding myself in existential angst.

This universe is the underworld, seeking redemption. We await mornings of coffee cups and afternoons of cups of tea and sultano cookies, here.