spew nonsense like seeds
thoughts ill-received to make sense
what are you saying?
Tag: writing
hungry
hunger once again
appetite for poetry
never gratified
air to breathe
I met a man once.
When we got to talking he asked me what I did.
I told him I’m a dancer.
“Neat” he said, and then “What do you really do, though? What are you actually going to do with your life?”
If I can’t dance, then I might as well die right now, I said to him earnestly.
I don’t think he believed me, for he only laughed and turned away.
After he left, I began to notice my skin was turning cold, crackling, and threatening to fall apart….. it had been too long since I had moved. Even that short conversation with the unbelieving man was too grand a pause, too much time away from dancing.
So I ran as fast I could and leapt, flew through the air, wind catching hold of my hair… giving myself up to my life’s purpose. I felt the warmth return to my skin, my pores brimming with satisfaction, maintaining seamless balance. It was as though finally I had provided them with the air they needed to breathe.
I think I may have landed sometime after, I’m not sure.
In my heart I’m still flying through the air…
Photo Credit: Alexander Yakolev
to-do list
huge to-do list waits
better get started on it
oops, it’s time for bed
scarlet
Exuberant red painted on bare legs
blown away by wind
and unveiled into monstrous petticoat.
Heart protected in chest
held sternly by a corset
classiness offset by dirtied undershirt.
Walk across the road and
grab that handsome man,
make him mine.
Now he’s yours?
Oh, right.
Tomorrow he will be for someone else,
or not even be at all.
Good. Now cut.
Sit,
here’s
some
food.
Not hungry?
Eat more.
Drink more water.
Stop,
let’s touch up this
and that.
Her too fine hair
unhinged by a rapid breeze.
Again.
Stand still, you are a
benumbed rag doll
waiting for perfection
to be stitched
externally into her body.
Might be a while,
may as well go mingle
with the other dolls
where laughs lurk in stranger’s faces.
How long has it been?
Ten, twelve hours?
That will be all for the day.
See you again,
maybe,
someday.
If you’re lucky.
noisy lambs
hustle into the bus like lambs
out of confinement
sent packing, in search for
infamous greens. lustre and articulate
engine roaring
wolves covetous for
unsung flavours and flaunted sequins.
fresh on the hides
though undeserving and ill equipped to defend.
engine blazing
trepidation powering
muscled legs
…..yet never go anywhere.
rooted instead, limbs fusing into
the dirt like weeds given an
overflow of life’s energy.
inability to distinguish personal thought
from the incessant baa baa-ing
the panic which drives-
are they sent away yet?
of course not, set
muttering ambiguously so that
the wolves
cannot
reach
and disfigure our
freshly combed wool
our neatly painted faces
our tuned up voices
humming soft melodies
for lovers to follow
Instead-
Just stay silent,
and hope to be led to quieter pastures.
I don’t want to pack
Claim to be packing
but eat cookies for breakfast
and write a haiku
call me dancer
If I did not dance today,
does that mean I’m not a dancer?
Maybe tomorrow
I’ll wake up,
and dance
frantically
like they say not to
beautifully
everyone’s guilty pleasure
ugly
so that they’ll call me an artist
fluidly
to send the blood to my fingers and toes
heart beating
rigorously until my body cannot withstand
the draining
my energy donned in droves
from passion
and temper
so that no can can dispute
no one can deny
sacrifice my life to prove and
call myself dancer.
They’ll have to agree.
lipstick
sip tea from dainty china cups
imprinting lavish coloured stains around the rim
the footprint of painted lips
a kiss thankful for the sweet taste
remain crystallized for the next sipper
appointment
Why are you so late?
Your abundance of hours
My time is worthless
Some call it red 