There are things that make me happy, and some more that make me sad. But if I had a seat by the window everything would be happy, sunny mornings, even on melancholic, rainy evenings.
If I had a seat by the window I would write an ode and dedicate it to every bird that came to rest on my sill. And if I had a seat by the window I would keep count of the leaves on the trees and name every single one of them, so that they were never lost.
By the window I would sing for weary passers, and watch the rain pour down as it does right now. Everyday would be Versace and Armani even if it was only gunny and old paper bags. From my window I would dance for the marching band and follow the flight of the bumble bee. All for that seat by the window.
And when life would be a kidney stone I would slide through the crack in my window. And walk barefoot on the roof. And when life would truly be pustular I would simply sit on the sill and let the sunshine carry me home.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Monday, June 20, 2011
In My Matchbox
In my matchbox we eat wax crayons and cut our clothes out of the ad mags. There is a beautiful beagle up for adoption covering my left breast, and an as good as new automobile, barely been used, price negotiable, on my sleeve. In my matchbox everyone knows the words to La Vie En Rose and nobody goes to work on a rainy morning.
All words are poetry and all toes curl inside the warmth of striped socks. Sometimes we stay awake so the moon won't be alone and sometimes we stay awake because we can.
In my matchbox pop is not a culture, or a song, or an art, or the way the weasel went. In my matchbox don't always have to kick a football, and girls are not waiting to be swept off their feet by Prince Charming.
In my matchbox, the rotten apples eat gunpowder and all seven seas are comfortable. We have vegetable patches to grow gourd and berries and peonies and in our spare time we swing on fairy lights. Shopping lists are written on postcards and epics on post it's. We paint with our fingers and wrap gifts in Turkish carpets.
In my matchbox I am happy, in my matchbox I am also alone.
Come home to my matchbox.
All words are poetry and all toes curl inside the warmth of striped socks. Sometimes we stay awake so the moon won't be alone and sometimes we stay awake because we can.
In my matchbox pop is not a culture, or a song, or an art, or the way the weasel went. In my matchbox don't always have to kick a football, and girls are not waiting to be swept off their feet by Prince Charming.
In my matchbox, the rotten apples eat gunpowder and all seven seas are comfortable. We have vegetable patches to grow gourd and berries and peonies and in our spare time we swing on fairy lights. Shopping lists are written on postcards and epics on post it's. We paint with our fingers and wrap gifts in Turkish carpets.
In my matchbox I am happy, in my matchbox I am also alone.
Come home to my matchbox.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Endless Cups Of Late Night Coffee
You are a victim of desire and determination, so you lie awake revising and accommodating. Drinking endless cups of late night coffee.
You watch the right films, and pretend to watch the right films. You read the right books, and pretend to read some more.
You are shocked at how easily you will allow the contours of your being to be moulded by an outsider. Perpetuating an idea is key. An idea that incestuous, niche groups accept. An idea that air kissing social madames thrill about, and want to bed. There is simply a single rule - never a moment of doubt, never a moment of acceptance of the truth.
Women are dispensable, and men by the dozen. You swirl bitter in your glass and smirk in condescension. You share carnal pleasures with a communist-fire breathing bearded man or a woman with thickly lined eyes and heavy silver jewellery. Promiscuity is the unaffected and undisputed norm. And in the afterglow of air doused in the last dregs of cigarette smoke and sultry panting, you read Beat Literature and discuss politics.
You have fused with the story you created, like a parasitic zygote that attaches itself to the crimson womb.
You write using words like effacing and phrases like sycophantic distortion. You repeat the last word of a well-crafted sentence for a supposedly pointed effect. You cash on being Indian, and hence make more than seldom references to the Casuarina and Jacaranda.
You watch the right films, and are pretty sure you enjoy them now. You read the right books and are almost certain you concur. You have become the regular with a table by the window. You sit with a dog-eared Sartre, handwritten notes in the margin, by your side, and make Kafka-esque observations about sugar sachets.
You are now one of them. You drink expensive whiskey and share partners. Smoke outside theatres and find infinite entertainment in Post-Modernist discussions. And yet sometimes when you are drinking that last cup of late night coffee, you cannot help but admit it to yourself. And although you tell yourself in secret, and you have listened in secret, the world knows. But you stupid, stupid intellectual, the world always knew.
They watch the right films, and pretend to watch the right films. They read the right books, and pretend to read some more. And in secret, over that last cup of late night coffee, they admit it to you.
You watch the right films, and pretend to watch the right films. You read the right books, and pretend to read some more.
You are shocked at how easily you will allow the contours of your being to be moulded by an outsider. Perpetuating an idea is key. An idea that incestuous, niche groups accept. An idea that air kissing social madames thrill about, and want to bed. There is simply a single rule - never a moment of doubt, never a moment of acceptance of the truth.
Women are dispensable, and men by the dozen. You swirl bitter in your glass and smirk in condescension. You share carnal pleasures with a communist-fire breathing bearded man or a woman with thickly lined eyes and heavy silver jewellery. Promiscuity is the unaffected and undisputed norm. And in the afterglow of air doused in the last dregs of cigarette smoke and sultry panting, you read Beat Literature and discuss politics.
You have fused with the story you created, like a parasitic zygote that attaches itself to the crimson womb.
You write using words like effacing and phrases like sycophantic distortion. You repeat the last word of a well-crafted sentence for a supposedly pointed effect. You cash on being Indian, and hence make more than seldom references to the Casuarina and Jacaranda.
You watch the right films, and are pretty sure you enjoy them now. You read the right books and are almost certain you concur. You have become the regular with a table by the window. You sit with a dog-eared Sartre, handwritten notes in the margin, by your side, and make Kafka-esque observations about sugar sachets.
You are now one of them. You drink expensive whiskey and share partners. Smoke outside theatres and find infinite entertainment in Post-Modernist discussions. And yet sometimes when you are drinking that last cup of late night coffee, you cannot help but admit it to yourself. And although you tell yourself in secret, and you have listened in secret, the world knows. But you stupid, stupid intellectual, the world always knew.
They watch the right films, and pretend to watch the right films. They read the right books, and pretend to read some more. And in secret, over that last cup of late night coffee, they admit it to you.
Friday, June 10, 2011
My Orchard Of Orange
Today I peeled a baby orange. Strange in the middle of June.
I rested the fruit in the palm of my hand and let the citrus goodness permeate through me. I felt it sting the root of my canine and I winced in sour delight.
I sat back and rocked it between my fingers till I found the dent on it's leathery back. Premature. We were in the middle of June.
I dug my nail into the bottle green peel. I carved the letters of my name into the bottle green sheath. The spray stung my eye. It was too early. It was the middle of June.
I hooked my finger beneath the bottle green layer, and slit it open. More spray stung my eye. It was war.
I tore. I tugged. I warred. I won. Time had not moved. Still the middle of June.
The fruit lay inside. Defeated and raw. I glared at the white, pathetic excuse, willing it to be ripe. Change colour I begged, my recent victory forgotten. I had forgotten. I told you - it was the middle of June.
I rested the fruit in the palm of my hand and let the citrus goodness permeate through me. I felt it sting the root of my canine and I winced in sour delight.
I sat back and rocked it between my fingers till I found the dent on it's leathery back. Premature. We were in the middle of June.
I dug my nail into the bottle green peel. I carved the letters of my name into the bottle green sheath. The spray stung my eye. It was too early. It was the middle of June.
I hooked my finger beneath the bottle green layer, and slit it open. More spray stung my eye. It was war.
I tore. I tugged. I warred. I won. Time had not moved. Still the middle of June.
The fruit lay inside. Defeated and raw. I glared at the white, pathetic excuse, willing it to be ripe. Change colour I begged, my recent victory forgotten. I had forgotten. I told you - it was the middle of June.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)