Sunday, June 14, 2015
Mind is a corridor – dark, dank, desolate; in the deep stillness of the night an indistinct stir.. The songs whistle through in wavering crescendo until they find their nooks to sit, fluff and fold their wings and sleep.
Mind has its despairing dead ends, unfinished tales, untold lore – they exist in a perpetual pudibund swoon. When awaken, they give birth to the thorny throat beasts clawing inside a trembling neck.
Mind has it’s crawlspaces where every giggle and gasp is accentuated. Delirious acoustics makes a dripping tap unbearable, a drop in the wind soothing. Mind is a lattice of worm holes that collapse upon themselves and spawn a labyrinth.
At times you find a small snail-track, silvery like liquefied moonbeam unspooling away, rounding a corner and suddenly a door! You open and mind is a ferocious garden. Hidden by a clump of desolate shrubs you may come across a shy lily, hiding within its nervous corolla a hushed magnificence. At another end an orchid, almost lurid in its beauty. It lures you until you see a gasping bee tumbling out of its luscious, poisonous whorls.
Mind has unexplored trails laden with redolent rosettes that purl away into the forest dim.
Tuesday, June 9, 2015
Despair is a thing with claws
scratching across an asbestos roof;
It is the unspittable grind between molars-
root cackling against gum
a sandpaper chewed to death
(Take deep breaths? PAH!)
Despair is the screams painted on gritty sockets,
Deafeningly silent - turning into a sweaty insomnia-
onion tears over a non-stick pan, fish-stained.
The incessant drone of World Cup commentary-
all in a loop, I want to smash something-
your head, for instance.
Instead I make endless therapeutic omelettes,
the ‘woman’s’ magazine insists:
go revamp your wardrobe, you’ll feel better
The-ra-peu-tic – a black cloth rips inside my jaw.
or I could secretly make neat, non-threatening gnashes-
and prattle away – until the voices gnaw into my nails.
a blankness filled with ‘whys’,
vast, convenient and hidden inside a SHUT UP.
Old crones crawl over my forehead
they turn to splintered singings
ear-splitting; pieces running off-
Into places inside me
(I didn’t know existed)
stalactiting in my stomach.
My despair is a decaying verse-
a drowned caterpillar, unpupated,
ants’ breakfast. How fast the flesh disappears!
The sickening irony sews into a smirk-
Where is that thing with feathers?
Inspired by Emily Dickinson’s Hope is a Thing with Feathers
Sometimes it is coffee, dark as the residue of unremembered nightmares lingering on the underside of lashes. Sometimes it is insomnia, like dead satellites etched on skin - dead, grey, hollow. Each with its own terrible echo. Sometimes it is that carousel that starts up inside the skin, rippling lights, that music which make the skies throw-up and drown, the rasp of untranslatable words. Sometimes it is the penumbra of an unwritten poem, a delirious line that slips away from my desperate hands. I am left with only a redolent quaver on my fingers. Sometimes it is a ghost from the chaotic part of wakefulness; its laughter explodes in my throat. My eyes trace maddening bends on the wall, a white-washed corner stretches up, a light socket becomes a hungry mouth. Sometimes it is a clench in the jaw, the pull in the eyebrow, the chasms growing on my forehead, the chortles of my empty notebooks, the horrifying nothingness of a blank page, the heaviness of these blood whispers.
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