Dream stories: disjointed poetry.

And then the smoke screen shifted, through the ache in my chest that bled out in blue chelpark ink that stained my thumbs. Pressing the backspace button is a bit like choking back a scream, it has the same degree of suffocation.
The alienation I feel, the clarity that pierces in my brain before the world turns cloudy again, where am I? What world is this?

If you know you have poison in your hand, does it automatically imply that you will not drink it?
As the green liquid swishes in the cup, I wonder if growing up meant having an endless series of choices you wished you did not have to make.

I see around me they have achieved the quintessential romantic dream, the sad heart ache scream, the open doors and micro-worlds, yet they don’t believe in this reality.
Spilt me into an atom, into the everyday and the poetic, somehow refusing to fuse the two, you cannot make a poem out of your life, you have bills to pay, food to cook, errands to run.

The smoke haze surrounding your forehead, and you realize nothing is immortal, you can be a testimony for your age, but there will come a time in your life when you will end up disagreeing with who you are.

The pretense is a thick layer of make up cracking like eggshells, I am dancing on smoke waves, a sea of fire look, look
It is chasing me again, the monsters in my head, the monster in my bed, the monster, the monster whose fingers race down my spine, the men who call me at three in the night, the liquid haze, the wonder gaze, for a moment I halt- then my resolve cracks, you must reap what you sow.

Could you look impassively on the face you slapped with your cock, bunched up her hair, watched the mascara drip down her cheeks, her spit dribbling from her lips to the sound of your crooning, name calling-why does she like it, why does she let you do it, is this madness, is it a disease?

Do you think of her as someone else when she is cleaned up and lying on your lap, discussing world health, can you see the outline of last nights session on her face? Do you love in spite, or without the love you wish you had for her?
Despite, then.

The lies trace down your tongue as you wonder briefly where the alienation stems from. The discomfort wins for you every time, the strains of blues music fill the air overriding the bleak strains of a dispassionate Shehenai, and the chattering of mid afternoon crowds.
The fan whizzes in air, the poetry waits for you to announce its arrival.

Part 1.
The trouble with verse being your choice of escape is
You’re not sure when you are writing for performance
And when you are writing for yourself.
Every time you pick up the pen,
You make art out of your pain,
Your pleasures and insecurities,
An exhibition of your consciousness.

The way I see it, you may not
I have no story to tell you, except the one I have made up
In my head.
Should I live my fantasies, or write them down instead?
The line crosses into afterlife,
We toss and throw to each other
The pieces of our hearts,
Waiting for the world to see,
The romantic that is me
Waiting for me to believe, in the tortured spillage
The garbage of thought,
The politick in me, sits up, scratches her chin in
Mock interest-
What did you say?, ‘you know the
Girl he dumped for the
Girl who slept with my best friend’,
Exchange of news,
Of pictures,
Thoughts, mountains of dewdrops and I cry tears
That will never dry.

Look through my lens, I pass with disinterest
The talent blown out in smoke rings,
Daily finances, lighting up,
Filling my lungs with the cash economy of
Someone elses exploitation,
Slow death.

Small death.


Existence, the myth of being, of the silence
Of knowledge and mistakes made in

Oh our fabled youth
Our trucks of escaped ghosts that
We watch spinning the carousel.
An empty park is eerily like the back of my palm
Lined with blue veins,
Eyes dusted with kohl,

You cannot lie, when you sink your fangs into the madness,
Of a body,
Give me an empty vessel to pour my overflowing
Spirit and imaginations.

I can slide the dancing demons down, shackle them to my feet, pull me closer, repeat.
I am dragging down the blades, carrying on my back the tiny devil, coaxing me to fizz out, never to be seen again.

I want to connect to you,
I stretch my fingers, perfectly shaped, bright green, dripping with tendrils that lick and caress your blue skin, our alien demons feeling each other, the fire stoked by the wind, the embers in my nostrils and my flowers flare, there is endlessness in the darkness, you are not who you are, just a cage, a prison which I could spilt and then you would be flying away through the sunset, listening to the sounds of forever on a tiny radio attached to your wing.

I wanted to kiss you, feel you self destruct like bad pixels on a blue screen, disintegrating, falling stars, cosmic powders and fire, you are coated in moon dust and walking on the edge of the parapet. I saw you from down below and climbed forty floors to meet you. Your florid headdress, the green feather boa look hideous on the hard lines of your chest, dipping impressively into your pants.
I kiss your mouth, tasting the candy floss that was as garish as plastic strawberry candies. I was in love with your alabaster skin and your fragile eyelids, the pale blue of your eyes flecked with mascara, the pout on your lips painted blood red, I kissed and kissed you, my fingers running over the shadowy stubble on your jaw.

Beauty comes in the absurd shapes made by our shadows in the dark, Aesthesys swaying as if in the cold water of today under my feet, we were sailing to Byzantium to find the benevolent second church, with its turkish domes and roman prayers, Would they let us be baptized?
We were not christians.

There has to be a point in afterlife, we have to know. The Jews should have an afterlife, it would sell more faith that way.
The wind chime existed from before the concept of space and time, we are infinite. Scale the walls of marble, the rust from the steel pipes scratch your fingers, tetanus swims through your blood stream in no time.

Part 2

Brief, and hazy like a Sunday market
Baskets overflowing with the gifts and the church is wailing a tune
I should have heard in my dream but I didn’t.
My inside is a reflection of grace
Of music, aftertaste
Cigarettes and wine
Left-over takeaways, lipstick marks on the edge of cups
Ash floating in the air
Cushions in a disarray, the speakers still play the quiet beat,
Filling the small room with liquid.
The air is shiny, suspended, refracted and split into tiny spectrums.

Arrested in a moment, transported from outer space,
In a silent black and white film miming poorly,
The package delivered on the wrong side of the abyss.

We are stuck in a glass box installation
Demonstrating for the current population
The adversities in colonialistation

You’re on the other side of the telephone lines, the cold cables and sunset
The empty static in our conversations
Remind me of the impossibility of my crusade.
The whiskey I drank in my dream,
Made the kissing easier,
The face was similar to yours,
Bone structure,
I could almost pretend he was you,
But for the lack
Of electricty.
I confess, I had to rub off to
The sound of his breathing,
And an endless loop of a statacco laugh after you called me stupid.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s