Ridiculing the riddle

Poor enigmatic Riddle.

She puzzled them.

Her lips moved to the tune of some self-sung hymn.

Her smile knowing.

Her eyes held a truth which they refused to see.

Poor Riddle.

They laughed at her

'Cause they didn't understand her.

They never got the truth 'cause it was simpler than they thought.

Riddle just wanted them to look within themselves.

They blamed her for it.

Called her strange.

Smirks. Sniggers. And an occasional wink.

And the truth poured down her cheek as two twinkling teardrops.

White vintage down the side of a long-stemmed wine glass.

Gundrop silence.

The wooden stock was gleaned smooth. Smoothened out by the many sweaty arms against which it had leaned while its sight zoned in on its target. It was worn out. But AK's never get too worn out. The wooden stock. The cold steel muzzle. Its weight so delicately balanced by the bulk of the magazine. It felt right.

He could feel blood surging up his temples. Hear it foot-tap to the rhythm of his heart. And he remembered her face. Her delicately arched eyebrows. And her eyes which held that ocean of truth.

He could hear them come. The footsteps crunching in the gravel. The courtyard. The sun blared in through the window with a vicious violence. Sharp shadows. Sharper footfalls. He held the rifle. The magazine clicked into place. It felt right.

He could hear his deep breaths. Feel his chest heaving. And yet so silent. The gravel crunching in the courtyard. And he remembered her face. Her peach skin so soft beneath his fingers. Her cheeks turning cherry pink with his touch.

He clicked off the safety. Leaned out of the window. Arms resting on the rough grainy windowsill. The weight of the gun. The sunlight streaking, turning his eyebrows gold as he trained his eyes down the sight. Pulled trigger. TISSHHK. A puff of smoke. And a body fell limb in the courtyard. Pulled back the safety. Eyes trained again. It felt right.

Sweat trickling down his brow. Legs cramped. He sees the flare as a gunshot is fired. A volley of bullets. The windowsill splinters. The windowpane bursts into sharp bits of sunshine.

Her face... Her lips curled into that half-amused smile.

No more heartbeats. No deep breaths. No sweat down his brow.

Gundrop silence.

Soft

I walked through the rubble
And pick up a feather.
Light, soft, fragile -
An instrument of flight dropped.
It seems misplaced.
Lying gingerly, half-willingly,
Waiting to float away
With the slightest of persuasion,
While all around it
My world lies in static destruction.
The feather is too white
In the middle of the grey
As the sun shines down on it
Painfully.
I ma standing on
Crumbled walls,
Reinforced concrete blown to powder
By explosions whiter than the sun,
Charred bricks,
Splintered window frames,
Bent girders, Twisted ambitions,
Broken dreams.
I stand atop vanity
And vainly, I hold
The vane and ponder:
How the feather stayed so light
Unburdened by longings
And desires.
How it stayed so soft
When it had been dropped behind
So ignobly, so ungratefully.
How it stayed so fragile
When around it
Metal and stone blew as dust.
Dust.
But the feather is
Lying on its back.
No dust blows into its eyes.
Its eyes are turned up,
And all it sees
Is a clear blue sky
Caressed by smooth white clouds.

Typographic error

click-click-click click-click click-click-click

dup-dup dup-dup-dup dup-dup-dup-dup

the letters appeared on screen magically as my fingers ran across the keypad. its nice to see them there. i can see the words surging from my mind down to my fingertips. i can see them, i can touch their curved-straight edges onscreen. i wish i could take them out and hold them in my hand, feel their weight, how the earth pulls them to itself.

selfish earth. takes back everything. i think the earth 'cause i feed on it. the earth is part of me much more than i am part of it. it owns me.

tied to it by unseen cords, unknown kinships. gravity pulls you down to itself. and earth finally swallows you up, to spit you out somewhere else.

i am immortal.

the words are appearing one by one.

click-click dub-dub

keys crunching. heart beating. earth waiting.

typographic error.

Sweet Rust

It is excessively warm. Sweaty warm. I lean on the wall and leave behind a glaring pink-orange-red streak of rust.

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Lick the rust off your fingertips. I have been leaving behind too many fingerprints. Traceable back to unique me. And they stare back at me from the oddest of place. There are rust-stains on my jeans where I had wiped the sweat off my hand.

The smell of rust wafted from my fingertips. Nauseating, but allurring all the same. I tasted it gingerly. It was a mixture of that tingling taste of sweat, the musty blood taste of iron and a rare sweet taste - like putrid jaggery. A heady winey mix.

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I licked my fingers again. Finger lickin good. I closed my eyes and can see sweet pink rust. Two-dimensional candyfloss

Wanted to write a new blog entry. But all I feel like doing now is SuperPoking...