We start off pining
on a cushion of thoughts
aims and targets
that materialise and sink
until there’s nothing left but fear
amplifying, echoing, ringing, singing
Singing the requiems of hell
nothing but the poisonous fruit that you sowed.
Two tall glasses of latte
sit and converse in silence
over the table
Their foams are at different levels, measuring
Behind the panel, cakes
are meant for no one
the canned cherries gleam atop
in acrylic red
Chocolate cakes look pretty, objects,
cream, glossy fruit and cocoa dust
do not tantalise tastebuds
while the coffee beans do not grind.
They jitter in the stillness,
Two strands of hair hang from her modern bob
dip into the macaroni soup
as she tilts her head
brings the phone to her other ear
the cracks on the screen
smudge in the humidity in her
perspiration and leak
like age around her eyes
The rest of us sit silently
filling up the imaginary meeting room
but only one voice, the phone’s
reaches the high ceiling
and white bare lights.
The hairs twitch
a momentary breeze
and one falls without grace
into the soup, dimpling the surface
to prod a chilli padi
She doesn’t notice.
Modeled upon Amy Lowell’s ‘Interlude’
When I have dog-eared my notes,
and streaked them with neon;
When I have punctured their bruised margins,
and stacked blue file against blue file;
When I have packed them into musky cupboards
like the day’s memories –
To-morrow it will be the same:
Notes and highlighting
Memory upon memory
If the sun is beautiful filtered through clouds of stress
How much more beautiful is tomorrow’s sun,
Slanting through the dusty cream-coloured blinds
Glimpsing a young friend’s back;
Upon his face.
You shine, Blessed,
You and the sun.
The clock ticks away.
I think, when the traffic lights have blinked,
Only directions will change on clichéd
I sit in the heavy chair,
arms languid as free flow beer, toes like road signs for stray cats
to make my attention convincing;
and you remember that the road was flat, but what you hear is your story
about the peeling sole of my shoe, a shoe
that was always bigger than yours;
about my shadow that was darker than the dark road
my shadow that, no matter how much
it turned toward the sun, did not tan like us, did not sigh
and finally still.
I wonder if the restaurant owner,
with the soup stain on his shirt that his wife
will fret over with baking soda when there’s no one left to watch,
if he stopped walking like we did;
and maybe it’s the wife, with eyes that no longer supervise
the hands in this routine,
that long ago stopped walking the hem of conversations
like the one we’re having.
After all we’re just kids behind the keyboard; azns who never really grow out of high school
we’re toddlers with non-existent tolerances that expire faster
than fruit in the tarmac sun.
So we run around shooting guns loaded with spite
but call ourselves adults because we’ve learnt not to care
and forget that each of the hands behind your frigid pixelated palace
has a heart and that each one of them doesn’t want to be bad.
Walking through void decks
is lonely until you discover the cockroaches
that wave a feeble leg or feeler in greeting
I can’t tell which, from all the way up here.
The realisation went ahead of me
And I lost myself in the scrutiny of every blemish
on the concrete bed
but it was paranoid study and not morbid curiosity
that made our heads bow
as if we were mourning –
the person beside
felt his sole cringe at a cockroach’s soul
beneath his feet.
|adasmuse on Day 17: Interlude|
|elihu42 on Day 17: Interlude|
|Brittany Carol on Day 2: Alternate Lover|