People say

People said

the world is flat

has four edges and a strap

Gravity is only a myth

People say

life can exist without love

work all day and pay the bills

lest you sleep under the bridge

people say

it doesn’t matter how you lived your life

the day you die is more important

their insipid hearts glazed over

people say

work and till and earn your bills

go the streets and squander it all

all in a bid to fit right in

people say

there is only one way, ours or none

Only one god, ours or none

rebuke it and you’ll walk the plank

people say

wear mink coats and leather shoes

Your stone cold blinks must blind others

when you die, we’ll judge you still

people say

love yourself just as you are

and if you don’t, go under the knife

but when you die, we’ll judge you more

People say

all kinds of quatsch

pretend they care, yet judge all day

helping each other dig their grave.

People spend all night in the church

shake and tremble under the alter

roll around in dirt and dust

leave that place the same they went

People preach to you at end

You should live your life this way

then lock their doors and do the opposite

while you weep and wonder what’s wrong with you

People judge the dead for how they died

spit and dance on open grave

never mind the way they lived their life

then yell, I am christian.

I’ve learnt to smite what people say

their hearts overrun with wickedness and spite

smile in your face, judge behind your back

the only One to trust is Yahweh

The magpie’s song

Adorned by the brittleness of his aching spirit, the Magpie watches himself in the reflective stream and nods approvingly. His kins would be proud, if they could see him stretch out his nestled wings and glide inches above the water surface.

It is a good day. And it going to get better.

Victory is in the waddling stream, it is in the harvest of the trees rootling. It is in the squeals of the busy beavers. It is in his brother’s pea-sized eyes.

For years and years, his kind had been predated, and hunted down. He remembers his dear mate lying on the zenith of an Alpine mountain, try as he could, her small heart palpated and went silent before she thought of giving up. Stricken down by some hunter fellow. What woes trails the magpie’s life. Loneliness settled faster than the snowy blizzard that brewed on the day that the colours from his flamboyant feathers turned bland…until now.

He gripped the soil underneath his talon and pushed with all his little might. The time to mourn had come and gone. Today he smelt victory in the fields. He’d advocate it all day long

“Hello”, he yelled to the Robin

“Salute”, he tweeted to Frau Puffin

And then he settled on jenny’s windowsill and sang the most serene symphony she’s heard in a while.

When they asked him why he was so ecstatic with curiosity dripping from their lips, he winced and flipped and giggled and said, It’s going to be good day after all, as he pecked off the crust of jenny’s shepherd pie

Black enough

You ought to have to have seen her

Black body paint dripped from mane down to ankles

styled with a latex jacket and thigh high boots

A cigarette pressed lightly between her lips

You ought to have seen her

Her skin coalesces with the golden shy sun

She metamorphosed into a shade of deadly night

Belladonna like the devil’s berries

Honey coloured eye reflecting jewels

shea butter dripping from endless tamed lush kinks

Authentic she is, a goddess to behold

Belladonna like death cherries

Her footprints spirals in desert sand

Causing confusion wherever she trod

Posing for the cover of blacknvogue

Nubian temptress to the very end

And to think she had to scream her lungs

to break through a forcefield of deafening silence

they said she ought to behave whiter

Seemingly she was black enough

she was stunting on cloud bursting lilac skies

One could build a dam from her tear droplets

she lined a path from where she’d been

was forbidden to tango with ethereal solace

She was a drifting butterfly

perching on a fallen crimson leave

bejewelled by virgo’s decadent virtue

paradise cradled between her bosom.

You’ll remember her by her acerbic glances

the confidence that’s apparent through her melanin glow

they said she was black enough

to which she replied, “I didn’t chose it, I got lucky”

A kaleidoscope of doubt

Toxic is the air invading the space between my mouth and nostrils

grown a fool waiting for love to sprout on winged petunia

I’ve clawed my heart to recover crystals that glistens darkness in my eyes

Fear has returned to torment a dusty cobwebbed casket.

A ripple of the river reflects the subtle complexity of existence

An existence separated by colours, seen and unseen. Gold and silver.

Separating further into hues that are too bright and overly sharp.

I fear I have triggered a cascade of events.

Pillars of white ricochet their luminosity, giving the illusion of separate divinity, or separate existence, dividing life and living, body and soul, is there a difference between living and breathing?

I may very well be buried under an oasis of doubt, coughing up sputum and goo, invading the intangible crevices like a broken mannequin underneath a glacier.

And I have survived, I mean I’m still living — and breathing.

The stars shine so bright that they rip a hole in a time-space continuum

and all I wish to do is swim in the penumbra of twilight.

Collect kisses from a thousand crows

As they nest on top the clay that holds the secret to my doubts.

I’ve sworn a vow to do better. I’ll be better. I’ll hold a matchstick close to a furnace and bask in it’s golden glow.

I will light a candle close to my heart and let my tears bounce off it’s flames. I can do it, just you watch.

I can make the sun and moon kiss in cosmic bureaucracy.

The emo in me is like a sand that won’t let you see the delicate ocean circling in my eyes.

You need not look at me, if you wish not to. But I bid you,

Remove the anchor that weighs so heavily on my ankle.

Find me in a kaleidoscope of doubt.

Follow the trail of lost serendipity in my voice.

It’ll get better

The stream refused to stand still.

it chipped at the roots of trees, and the toes of little adventurers.

I find myself choking from lack of air

Pure oxygen won’t do, without hydrogen hysteria is only a matter of time.

In hindsight I’ve forgotten the feel of the earth underneath my foot

like a hamster running in circles, chasing fool’s gold. Bewitched by the sun.

And I know I have to breath, grapple at the element with both nostrils

because it’ll make me better, It’ll feels less nauseating. I’ll survive a while longer.

They say it’ll get better,

but when?

The stream longs to stand still

to hear the working nocturnal beavers

still to the rustling withered leaves

But today, currents are high.

the anxiety will explode from the base of my ribcage

the strictures at the back of my throat won’t disappear

Now I’m at loss for words

my heart is overflowing but my glass is empty

somehow dark emotions pour out of my chakras

Currents are sky rocketing

and sky is painting all shades of crimson

But

I’d like to stand still

to hold back the worries, that’s gnawing and spitting at my ankle

I’d like to hold back the fusty dam from over-flooding.

They say it’ll get better, I’m tired of asking when.

The Giant

I’m sitting on a balcony, separated from a motor way by a field of corn. Long enough that the swaash of Autos sound like binaural beats in my ears. Today is one when the sun is extra shy, so she’s hidden behind the clouds. The howling wind is substantive proof that a storm is brewing in the distance.

I do not fear the trickle of rain or the cold that has trapped my waning breath. Through the gaps between the trees, I’m stifled by a horrific giant. He is twice the height of an oak with skin so pale, it’s almost cyanotic. The veins on his forehead are visible, like a helmet made from the thickest part of a black widow’s web.

His eyes are buggy and bulgy, and they’re resting heavily on me.

I’ve never felt so weak like I do now, felt the need to plead for a chance of redemption. My breath is faint. My voice wont give up more than a fragile moan. My heart is beating slower by the day as the giant draws nearer.

I can’t keep on living this way. I am barely surviving. Something has to change, and fast. I wish I could snap my fingers and sentence this giant to the edge of the earth. His brawny body struggling to balance against the weigh of gravity, so that he is suspended in astral Limbo

What delight that would be. I’d dance again with rekindled passion. My lungs would be inspired to sing an old song in a new tune. And I’d walk out of the battle camp holding his decapitated head as a laurel.

I would like that very much I would. Even the thought of it warms my heart and causes my lips to curve upward.

Yet he draws closer everyday to me.

I do have another theory, one that terrifies me more. I do not know from where my giant came, perhaps he was formed between crevices in a mountainous region. But what if, he is harmless. Perhaps his hideous features are just for me to welcome and accept. And his mission is to help me align perspectives. It wouldn’t do much good to treat him like an unapproachable vermin.

He may well be an ally. I couldn’t know.

It’s the more reason to surrender, rather than dig a moat and build a buttress. I want to believe that the clouds are tired of absorbing the precipitation and will consequently release the blizzard that propagates the giant’s footstep to me.

The worse he could do would be to obscure my stance, challenging me to find refined vision in a paler shade of umbra. Maybe then he would vanish, taking with him the manacles weighing on my limbs and leaving behind an aura, that strips every façade and laces my tongue with a dose of truth.

image courtesy: Pixabay.com

The Road to Torture

She was a young sweet Bavarian virgin who had been moonwalking on clouds for a long time. Wearing unconventional boots that spread across the sky like a butterfly perching on a rainbow. She’d been riding on the waves of unorthodoxy. Certainly unlike others she was.

At first it was just blathering jokes. Slithering tongues and whatnot. Women at the lake, those gossipy analysing lots, addressing one another in satirical tone. “She always staring at me with her buggy eyes”. Another affirmed, “she stares a lot that one she does, you’d think she’s plotting something vengeful”. A little laugh here and joke there before they started on their way back home. But the birds sang to the whispering leaves of a weeping willow in the breasted forest and the wolves that nested beneath its roots chatted with the wild dogs. The dogs relayed to their owners. In a couple of days the town had formed a council.

“I hear she’s a kleptomaniac”. One said

“They say she’s a Parsel mouth”, said another.

Witch. Witch. Burn the Witch!”, they yelled in unison.

Our young sweet Bavarian girl took careful baby step on the gloomy road of torture. To a chamber where the executioner invited her to marvel at the edge of his chilling axe that bore the crest of early Christendom.

She was summoned before the council board and accused of sleeping with a nightmare-demon, among other grievous crimes, to which she confessed none.

The man with a black hood and a heavy axe vowed to be both her enemy and saviour wrapped nicely with a demented bow. She swore she hated him when he chopped off her tongue, but hatred consumed her when he crushes her joint and shove her into a sarcophagus. He said, “Your friend wants you to acknowledge your fate and curse your very soul”.

She screamed day after day and week after week. Even in the times she lost her voice, her breath panted on her behalf. For four months she was subjected to every kind of torture imaginable, including sitting on a spiky witches chair that had been exposed to heat. The young girl was dying , and much to the executioner’s rage, without a confession.

She was melting away. She didn’t look so young anymore, wasn’t so sweet either, more like a tattered condemned wench. The executioner got tired of waiting so he stripped her naked and flogged her so her will would be crushed. Then he made her walk in the market square wearing a bulky confession around her neck.

She walked through the rowdy market, only a faded ensemble of her former self, leaving footprints on the dirt as she headed towards the gallows. Death pecked her supple cheeks like they were destined to be lovers. It was no news that she didn’t belong to the universe dominated of humans.

No one who smiles different, or walks different does. In time, they would be escorted on deaths powerful wings to a place, where it didn’t matter so much to be different.

Moon river

How I love to hate the full moon.

The day I cease believing was when I start dying. Dying for a touch. Dying for a kiss. Dying close to your reach. Dying within you. And I remember sinking into bitumen, yelling out a language that I could not speak. I was wandering down the hallways of a light house, I thought I would see you. I would hear you. I could turn into you. Rummaging through wuthering heights. packaging together the ripe and the rotting. The jade and the purple. The insanes and the artefacts.

I bid you, fuel my abstract lucidity. Incoherent raspy words seep out of the pit of my black velveteen dreams. Forget the smoke of reality that fills the room and feeds my ego, I know that feeling of escaping into a void that only grows hollower. I see the full moon feeding off the crevices of my soul and forming dark version of me from it’s shadow. It brightens my heart yet send impulses down my spine. It is the part of me I wish to never confront

And once in a while my friend Intuition comes to visit. He borrows a hole in the middle of my forehead thats why I like to think i’m a unicorn baby, yet even at it’s strongest it cannot quench the sardonic flames of the moons strong pull. Once in every few hours I wail out in deep agony like a woman close to full cervical dilation in a labour ward.

Labels Labels. There isn’t just one for Heinz ketchup but one for you and one for me too. You name a personality, and as sure as the sky is blue, there is a label attached to it. So they termed me highly sensitive slash empath slash intuitive slash they ran out of labels and slashes. Pretty fancy terms for being the universe’s forced experimental guinea pig in a double-blind controlled experiment.

As sure as the day will end, I will not cave to my big bad bully. I will cry but I must be brave while crying. Perhaps this is my body’s attempt to feel something other than the rowdy noise of the grim reaper’s sharpened blade. But I’m half hoping my tears pool into a river that runs between twin valleys and snuffs out the moon silently as it rises above the alpines before it can claim my soul.

Toxic People with Toxic hands

You lost your childhood somewhere at the corner of Cleveland avenue to toxic people with waddling hands. They sunk you deeper into the clouds.

You reappeared here. Waiting.

Waiting for poetry to be read. Waiting for the trees to bear fruits and the seams of summer to sprout at the stems of a sycamore tree. For some reason, that was where you were looking for yourself. For your ego.

That was where your spider senses were leading you. They said it was bad luck to yell your dreams out of the window at daytime. It was toxic even, but you already knew that.

You are not surprised by the storm. You have seen it brewing from a distance. It’s been getting stronger. More acidic like grapefruits being fermented to alcohol. This is how we are, you and me you see.

All your senses know the toxic hands grappling your shinbones. An endogenic heat spurring within you is begging to release your alcoholic nature, but when the night disguises the sun and the days turn bronze, all you are left with are;

Toxic people with toxic hands.

Nevertheless, you are still waiting. All summer-long, you stood still. You feel your torso sink further into the clouds of toxic hands. The trees bleed violet. Your senses melt. You forget the reason you were waiting in the first place because a woman with an oversized ears pointed at you as she poisoned your mind with a toxic snake.

You breath yourself back to stillness. It will be okay now. The sun will shine again at the end of autumn because they can’t take away twice what you’ve already lost once.

once upon a man

I once had you to look up to

you with your wits and cunning games

yet you reminded me of the gravity of failure

and overwhelmed me with volleys of helplessness

You once hugged me oh so tight

I’d boast of your unwavering and heroic stamina

then you threw me out in a stormy night

and waited for the hurricane to sweep me into oblivion

You once gazed in my eyes so fondly

Your emeralds comforted my hazels

before you wrestled me towards the district of cruelty

driving me future to the brink of insanity

You once took me by the hand

you held on like I was dopamine

now you serenade me with pain

with throat tightening, eye watering torture

How I love to loath your smell

the scent of testosterone tinted with evil

Your hold on me is not over

until my brain seeps out from a broken skull

I am a disaster with a beating heart

thrown to the gallows by my saviour

all the while waiting for me to confess

that he is the only thing that is keeping me alive