I can melt in the warmth... Oh the joy!! Take me on the rockette to the sun..!!

Sunday, January 30, 2011

Yellow Sunshine, Blue Filigree


The sunshine on his neck was like the warmth of her breath. The sun played among the entangled locks of her hair - all gold and bronze and lustrous black,

He took her hand in his.
Tender. Fragile. A lotus stalk.
And ran his fingers over the back of her hand, tracing the pale blue filigree of veins that showed through the paleness of her skin.
Her eyes. Always half-dreamy. Lost somewhere in the dense foliage within herself. She wasn't smiling. Not surprized. Just dreamily waiting for each moment to drag itself into the past.

If only I could look into your past, he whispered. if your palm can hold hidden all the secrets of your future, it seems just logical that I could read your past here. Flowing timelessly through these blue rivers of your memories.

And the present? Her voice distant and dreamy.

The present? That's what we make every moment we live. That fragile line between two certainties. The fingertips of time. The touch of your hand. What we create that spills over the moment next to add to our past. Teardrops and icy glaciers which feed our rivers of memory.

Silent half-parted lips.
Half-dreamy eyes tracing the contours of some cloud.
A blue filigree.
And the warmth of sunshine on his neck.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Grey is bluer than you think

Good morning.
A weeping afternoon.
Not a wisping breath of wind.
The musty smell of tamarind
Trailing airy fingers through
Earth-soiled dew,
Rubber balloons and cigarette ends,
A dime and sixpence,
A few dropped tears,
Listless tingling fears,
Smiles and smirks
Embroidered into a book,
And a pistol in my hand that shook.

It is as simple as buttoning your sleeve.
Even simpler.
Idiot-proof. Sharp. Efficient. And no quivering quavering metallic heart.
One trembling finger
And a six-ounce slug
Explodes the silence in vehement self-conscious defiance
Cuts a straight line through the two inches of air
(A line too straight to be natural
Yet too straight to be man made either-
The lethal has a beauty that is incomprehensibly divine.)
And pounds into soft tissue
Crunching bone
And lodges itself into
Soft electric pulsating
Grey matter.
The body snaps out of synapse.
Acetylcholin.
Resounding echoes in an empty chamber
Of a sound that never registered.
Too quick.
Quicker that hopes and synapse hops.
Hops and barley and beer.
No thought, no regret, no fear.
Red blood. White bone. Grey matter.

The sky is grey.
And old and stale
As moulded out butter toast
With furry rhizophus spreading out black fingers into its very heart.
Black fingers.
Nerves of thought.
The wind is a faint reminder
Of a long forgotten secret.
Of words that made me smile.
Laugh. Cry. Fear. Long. Wish. Love. Yawn.
Feel.
The mould smells of the past.
Thick, sweet and balmy.
Like sweaty palms.
Warms me up.
The moment has passed.
The grey is blue.
Bluer than it seems.
The gun clangs on the floor as frail fingers let go.
Sweaty and warm.

Good evening.
Bad night.