Memory. The word floats, filtered in sunlight. Cushions, the slide of bare skin on leather, my heart simmering a sugar spice mixture of cinammon kisses of ecstasy.
I have the answer, why the red powdered dust with its odour of rough sweetness was the object of Ondaatje’s poem. In a world of puppets on wooden strings, so accustomed to responses that are expected, commiting actions based on their interpretations- you can only mark the world in blood, sunlight or cinnamon.
Be a slut, for me.
The words hung in the air, in the elbows and the knees- she seemed so out-of-style for the screen. Her flame red hair hung on her porcelain shoulders, so bright, I could smell her skin over wires.
I wondered what her name was, the only hands that suited her body was hers, everything else seemed lasvicious, overpainted in garish tones. I think of the way her brightness must ebb everytime she floats in her own world of art, while they tie her down.
For a moment, close your eyes. That is how Eve must have looked. A voice whispered from beside me. I am trying to put her into words, but she is too full, too complete.
Words are liquid, they slip in cracks and create pictures out of pixels. I could only pour my words on her, they would do nothing on her sealed perfection.
Cinnamon then? No, I’ll leave that for another day. The smell is sharp in my nose, I refrain from binding her just yet. Sunlight. I could filter her film noir style, her movements are classical. Her movements are immortal. They are beyond blood, sweat and toil because they are made for the silver screen.
Watching her is almost akin to inhaling crushed pine needles, wet earth and the light strumming on acoustic strings. She belonged in art, in pictures and videos where she remained untouched by her own corrosion.
Words pool, drip into sighs,
White with liquid, heavy in its buoyancy
A girl made up of mercury.
Lying alone weaving strands of isloation.
Scythes of death, the bane of old age
Those luring nooses of frustration.
I think of another girl then,
Her hair teasing the corner of her pixie head
two eyes slanted, a mouth wounded into a pout
So real, the demons that your skin turns to rubber
Till you imagine this girl, she feels like clouds
Puffed up in softness and illusion
One is the cloud, pristine white or dark crimson in anger
Another falls, cold lucid drops and a soul stands
Her boots pooling with water, an umbrella in hand.
A place called yellow, marked with stray lines of spice that wont fade from your skin. A place called Freedom, where rivers stretch like the souls of dead men. I stand on the estuaries of human consciousness.
I will dream of her tonight, collecting abandonded strands of copper curls, electric blue sockets shoking me out of my senses.
Will you dance with me? I can hear the symphony in the breeze, tilt your head you will hear it too. My skin is thick with apathy, and honey you reflect off it, I am rubber.
Celluloid dreams of art, you wonder if you can pause too, in a painting or a poem, restrained- but in this alternate reality immutably free?