The fuel for oversimplified thoughts lies not in the heart, but in the throat. What is the celebration in explaining what the author already knows, explain to the writer the dizzying mass of words that hammer against his temples with insistent cries- let me out!
Teach the brook the chemistry of the water it carries, the shifting sands the geography of its maps, explain to the speaker the source of the burden he carries, and expels on the world.
Dwarfed by the expressionless words that sit on my tongue, trolls hidden as giant rocks till one day,
They fall, echoing, booming as they crash into the surface of the earth. Connected by mere strings, of thoughts you think you had, but they turned out to be endless reels you yank and yank
Till it dawns on you that you are unwinding yourself. Your obsession with dissection has reached the peak where you sit and examine piece by piece
The frayed corners of your own body.
Marooned alone in an island of half-believable phrases that could have made sense but didn’t, you fiddle with your thumbs and make paper boats that refuse to climb upstream.
You watch the tiny prints on the back of a forgotten paperback, the lines magnified through the dirt in your eyeglasses. You sit in silence, the smoke rising from your nose in whirls, your head a whirlpool of everything you wish you could have said- if only.
There is a raving mad monster hidden, restrained under your epidermis, flowing with the blood in spurts, the devil stares at you from the blue veins on your wrist.
You think, you stop to think at the door of paradise but, but there is more that is dragging you back away,
Away from harm of eternal happiness and life choices already ready made. Like the edge of a jumper caught on a doorknob, your threads unravel, coils and coils of crinkled wool that lie on the floor.
So you carefully wind your dreams into a ball, and leave it gathering dust on a shelf till the three cats of fate come and tangle, dance and toss around your dreams, hopes and aspirations.
One paw to the next, shreds everything and you’re surrounded by everything you had hoped for only they are in ruins.
You are the victor of your defeat, standing on the ruined castle of poetry without rhyme and literature without qualities.
You never did finish that story, lying in a drawer with all other knickknacks you saved because they were not souvenirs, another relic stands, a mute cenotaph to your defeats.
Do you stare out of your rose-coloured glasses, reading the ink stained letters I had sent to you in a sort of last minute frenzy before Pandora shut her box with a resolute snap and they pasted the quarantined signboard on my mind? I read the the stories backwards in my mind, for I do not have the heart to put them on paper and watch them die. I live in the moment, crying Carpe Diem when I know today is a lie I will regret tomorrow.
I swing to slow music under purple lights of disco-theques, wondering if a stray bullet will hit my conflicts and my parents would come across my Narnian closet when they bury me in fire.
I am flying, a Wendy painted by Dojins, dark skinned and sensual I ride in the worlds of innocent eroticism, the ashes dry on my fingers and my mouth smelling of smoke.
I am never finished, only abandoned- a poem forgotten for so long that I appear complete, what if, what if God forgot to put on the wings on us, and they would spring forth again in a twist of genetic history?
I am Frankenstein’s monster pieced together from bits of everything, dissolving into haphazard avenues of everything I wished made sense, but nothing ever does.