Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Keyboard floats away, another word appears without a foetal cry, a cityscape of lies luminesce, slow evaporation of the gurgling drain, dog pee, despair.

In the midst of moving from one chaos to another, I discovered a slumberous, tiny, cramped second-hand book shop in Church Street. There I found rare old cloth bound editions with cracked spines and yellowing pages all sold at ridiculously cheap rates. Many were easily between 50-150 years old. When I asked the shop attendant where all these books came from, he said apparently all the "oldies" are dying out leaving behind all this "junk" and their kids have no time to read or preserve them so they sell them off in bulks.

Some days I crave to become a guerrilla poet, walk the streets in the neon night wearing a bird mask, spray-painting free-verses on the sullen walls.

Skill, intelligence and sentience transcend gender, region, religion and language; I hate, hate this patriarchal, heteronormative society which judges my principles, opinions and choices based on all this human-made crap. Desperately wish I were an androgynous or asexual mollusk, a piece of time (the 60s), a patch of lavender sky, a laughing stream or April shower, a snowy peak or an old, old layer of earth full of well-preserved fossils, caves and mineral deposits whispering their stories to me.

Image: Painting by Edvard Munch


Mayonnaise in a plaster cast
eaten with hand,
a house made of straw carpets and glue, a neighbourhood
of bizarre, evocative old building,
a sneaky photographer, a pervy man
in shiny violet coat, a glass shop,
a preparation for a marathon,
an over-decorated living room,
falling down as the roof tears off, a wall peels away,
a child gurgling, a staring family dangling from rope ladders,
rain filling the gaps of the fractured pavement
reflecting the iridescent desolation spreading the sky.
Wake up finding a dead moth on your elbow.

Image: Painting by Sam Szafran