Verbal injustices

As I look down,

A half squirmish pile of vermicelli

Smothered in sesame seeds

Complimented with steamed peas

Grows into writhing eels with green hats.

Claustrophobically cling wrapped.

She is on her side again,

The purplish grey rings around her eyes

Tell of more fatigue.

She is no longer Iscariot the traitor,

But Jude the betrayed.

A ball of sadness unravels in the stomach pit

And, embodied in the squirm,

Reaches out piercing the cling wrap

Wrapping its seeking tendrils around her neck.

What would it be to put her out of misery?

My eyes are my power.

Walking steadily down the same corridor

I watch the imbalanced liquid in a tea cup

Teasingly swaying from side to side of cup,

I slow down

And then splash out onto the saucer.

This is the life of the resident;

Unsteadily giving and trusting.

‘Don't start yourself too short,
my love
Or someday you might find
your soul endangered
A natural beauty should be preserved
like a monument to nature.’

I quickly place a napkin onto the saucer,

Balancing the breakfast tray on my weak wrist

Weary of one slight millimetre out

My day would be ruined.

Revelation awaited,

The tea seeps across the bleached white napkin

Tainted purity

But all the more beautiful for it.

I live my life as a metaphor,

As an analogy to real life.

But in that I am sated,

Replete

Somnolent with gratification,

Of greedily drinking the sap of life.

-----------------------------------

The cracked outer shell

Is solidifying

But still ink drops

Trapped in water droplets

On the inside.

Seeking anew

Merging

Permeating

With no end.

The wealth of emotions

I learn of late

Are immeasurable in words.

Only Leonard Cohen could do them justice.

As are the relationships built with people,

They are all my lovers

And I revel in my harem of life.

But with a beady, naive eye.

I am the Mexican Hand Tree afterall.

Dull Flame

‘Through the down cast lashes

I see the dull flame of desire’

-Bjork

I stand at the crossroads on the landing.

The evening sun rays penetrate the gerbera petals

Once again

Harshly halo-ing the pastel co-ordinates.

The spider plant has been relegated to its suicidal perch

Above the toilet

In front of the venturi e(a)ffected window

That channels from the southern seas.

The towels hang roughly over the other toilet

Encasing it into a cubicle of wet colours

Each fighting for their space of dehumidified air

To humidify.

It was the cubicle, the humidity;

The sanctum I chose to dwell in

After a day of exposing my self

To the sunshine. To the grass.

To the people whom I surround myself with.

But now I felt lost. Heavy. Dejected.

---------------------------

I stay perpetually occupied.

I am not my best friend.

Not now.

I thought, in my wet cubicle, about the loss

That is about to hit

Of the lost friends this summer.

The ones who have died in the last few weeks

Been delegated to enter the road of perdition

Where pain is the least of their burdens.

The setting sun

Over those mountains,

 Over there.

But not the mountain rivers within

That surge upwards at the slightest loss

And drown any reason,

Or pragmatism.

Deluging my spirit into avarice.

And yet it is apathy I hate.

It is the dull flame of desire for life,

I have.

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