Towards the bottom, where the light of my fingers don’t reach anymore lies the forgotten conversations. The abrupt replies, the tired, petered out words that speak of maybe a slight derailment. Somewhere along the rolling of the days the old was piled over by the new.
The lower I go, the more alien the words seem- the unheard chatter that are a throwback to the times when my priorities were different.
A radio tuned into different stations yet in the static in between the dial-tone there it is, the falling stars, the aches of smiles I have lost.
I have a sudden urge to grasp the finger tips of the could-haves and would-haves and the ones that got away.
The bright, brand new conversations, outfitted without the flaws of argument that dot an alliance of the ages, I feel as if I have entered a digital world
A world absent of dog eared pages and coffee spills.
A world perfect in its brand newness. Without the reliable scars of age that I was so accustomed to.
My unbroken new world, slammed rudely on the outstripped globes of my previous slices of existence.
“So wild is the world,
So evil its men
So cheaply held-life.” – Raymond Souster
Learning as I am, the ways of the world again
My fingers slipping as on the edge of
A slimy tub after a bath
The avenues of the world seem
The kind of unknown, whose end I know
With great assurance,
Yet must travel through in
“I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad,
That the dreams on which I am dying, are the best I ever had.”
The end of her long cigarette glowed every time
She put it to her lips in a drag of
Breath, accepting tediously the air the world
Had to offer, lacing it with nicotine.
Her silk and ermine covered every inch of her
Eighties elegance, if only
She was not sweltering in the fly buzzing heat of
A tropical sunset.
Her hair pinned in a chignon of poised grace,
But her unruly amazon strands burst free like an overripe fruit,
Leaving a cascade of rough brown hair that trickled
Mud-like over her bare shoulders.
The classic curves of an Indian woman
Bulging obscenely in the straightjacket style of
A slight European figure.
Yet the tiara of the colonialist’s approval sits on
Her head, her forehead aching with the fragments of
Kohinoor she sells piece by piece to appear
Sophisticated before drug-addled
Bomb-making imbeciles, better than them only
In the belief that Orientalism means curry
Slanted eyes and superior mule-like common intelligence.
Beholden, to not a common thread of humanity, but
The fragmented cultural identity which deigns to forget,
Our evolutionary history.
That in the end, despite the savagery with which we protect our
We are atavistic, and will remain dull
Imitations of those who are no better than us,
Except in our own imaginations.