Snarl

the lip curls in disdain,
churlish and unremarkable,
a thud in the heart, the chest cavity hollow and dank,
stupid and ugly, its thoughts scatter around,
broken and hated, unwired and unknown.
sometimes thoughts of knowing the right things, of feeling the world,
descends into a hole, a caverning, dizzying bottom.
all it can feel is some cohesion, some sort of cohesion.
but even that lies on occasion and the shakes come back,
affecting the hand, the head and the eyes.
quivering twitching eyes behind heavy sored lids.
purple and blue surround the eye and escape over the neck and the shoulder and the breast and the pelvis, like a disease, a heavy unpredictable, debilitating virus,
its unpredictibility horrifying and tragic.
the tragedy never overcome by the happiness of being.
the happiness of being too short and too cruel.
the hole opens larger and darker and colder.
some day it will crack and splinter and fray away.
distort into noise and speckles and dots.
delete into microcosms, of cells and atoms.
tear away into nothing.

Flutterbye's

It is the darkness that causes the mind to sparkle and fly,
it is the mass of being, the discreteness of time that allows words to flourish, uninvited and warm,
always uninvited they come when you sleep, or just when you wake, and leave when you want them to stay.
So afraid they are of being captured and caught and being turned into font, markings on the page, caged in their song.
They will remain on that page, enslaved only to you.
Oh how I wish I could catch them, just once, or twice, they always disappear, go off in mid flight, sometimes so fast, i can barely see a glimmer, but sometimes very slow and i can feel them and see them and sense them beating on my neck.
My hands quiver with their presence, like a calm before the storm.
But away they go, free from my net, I hate them, hate them for not staying and for not loving as I love them.
I will not hurt them, just keep them awhile, until I know what to do with them, until they come to a meaning, then I will set them free, free to all and forever.
I beg them to stay, please, don't go away, I need them to help me understanding what I do.
Who am I, I ask, but they cannot answer because they refuse to sit still! Damn those words and those letters and thoughts, why won't you stay just for me, just today.
Can I take a picture, sketch down some thought, help me out won't you, I don't ask a lot.
But they refuse me, and for another night and for another day, they let me sleep, disturbed by their flight.
I won't rest til I have them, please just for one night.

Ruminations from a rainy night

By the bed

The air was always pregnant with the presence of a fear of rejection mixed with love, insecurity and obsession. Sometimes the senses were dulled, sometimes heightened to a degree of madness, both parties acting in a state of delirium, yet the problem always being their disparate emotions.
She insecure, he overwhelmed, she obsessed, he merely in love. It changed so much that it was never a fixed moment. Yet like it never was, the two continued to love as if anew.

By the table

The twinkle of lights reflect in pools of grey. Your warm face circling my palm, nuzzling its way into my breath. You catch my sigh with your tongue, splashing it around in your mouth, tasting its bitterness on your teeth. I laugh and you flick your tongue at the sound, engulfing it with one bite. It sinks in your tongue and touches the spot. Laughter is sweet and surprising.

I hope that you

I hope one day too, your flower will wilt,
and wither on your head,
and yellow on your skin,
and crack on your fingers,
and flicker in your eyes.

I hope one day you, will order the same as I,
will receive the same question and get the same reply,
and renounce the same tears,
as figments of imagination.

I hope that you too, will howl at the sky,
and hope for a sound,
as you shudder and cry,
huddle though your day,
and flutter though your night,
at the sound of a howl,
heard far far away.

I hope that our steps will step the same steps,
up to some temple,
some cherished communion,
some relished for union,
a perished solution,
to no ones problems.

I hope that some day I nip at your tail,
and you nip at mine as we roam the street scape,
until the day falls,
were we curl up as beasts
under a grey cloth,
thrashing our heads,
until the day stops.

You hope that some day our hands grow as hands, our fingers grasp air,
our hair grasps at hands,
our minds keep our ears,
our ears hear our nose,
our skin grows pink,
and warm and alone,
until we roam,
our cloth new and white,
our heads by our side,
our tails left behind,
our hands by our sides,
our homes far away,
our coats gone astray,
our hearts and our minds,
no longer combined,
we sink in our beds,
without ragged heads,
and fall asleep alone,
not knowing our song,
our howls in the sky,
float up and go bye,
our pearly window ledge,
keep us separate.

I hope that you hope that we find our grey bed and sleep on our heads.

The Harvest (possible Voiceworks submission theme: harvest. Comments, critiques please!!)

The little boy sits on his mothers lap, apprehensive at the sound of a dog barking far away. The dog beckons louder, its bark ringing through the town as the little boy sits on his mother’s lap eating a biscuit. The mother sits in front of the fire sewing an old striped sock, its seams ripped to shreds by an unknown force. She doesn’t seem to hear the dog or notice the bite marks on her sons little arms.

Crunch crunch crunch. Howl.

The little boy hears the dog walking towards the door, and the mother hears the little boy whimpering, and the father next door stands up to get his gun.

Crunch, crunch crunch.

The little boy looks at the door and feels his arms prickling, feels the heat of a breath down his back, feels a sharpness in his hands. The mother puts down the sock, puts down the needle and grabs a piece of rope, which sits next to the fireplace on an old rusty nail. She knows what to do. The little boy drops his half eaten biscuit to the ground, he can’t ignore the feeling now. The mother calmly walks towards the boy and places the rope over his neck.
The boy pleads with his mother, begs her to stop, but no words come out, only gutteral sounds of an inconceivable nature. The father emerges from his den, his gun cocked and calmly takes his place next to the fireplace. The mother goes to kitchen and returns with some bread and a bleeding piece of meat, which she throws to the ground. It falls with a heavy thud and drips into the cracks underneath the floorboards.

Crunch crunch crunch.

The little boy is crying, he doesn’t understand.

Crunch crunch.

The door starts rattling, the boy starts rattling, his bones twitching and jumping and changing inside him. The light burns his eyes, he thinks he is sweating, or is he crying, he can’t tell anymore. He twitches to get out of his chair but the rope holds him back. He lashes out into the darkness, he sees very little now, only forward. His ears prick up, he hears it all, he can hear the breath on the other side of the door, he can hear the stomach rumbling, like thunder through his brain. He doesn’t realize that it is his stomach rumbling, his breath grunting, him howling at the door.

The father walks over to the door and twists the key.

Crunch crunch crunch.

Two wolves stand snarling at the man with the gun. He keeps his gun pointed at them, which they know not to fight. The smaller one tugs at the rope keeping him tied to a chair, he is too weak and too small to break it, but the human standing next to the fireplace calmly unties the knot. The little wolf breaks free and eyes the piece of meat hungrily, wolfing it down in seconds. He sees a broken biscuit lying on the floor and eats that too. The little wolf looks at the man with the gun, his eyes betray something in him, sadness?

The little boy is inside the little wolf. He is screaming for help, but no one can hear him. He is the little wolf now.

The bigger wolf howls at the little one angrily.

…we must go now…

The two wolves bound out the door in a snarling, smelly, vicious mound of fur and dirt.

The mother looks at the father, who puts down his gun. The mother returns to her chair and picks up the sock which she has mended time and time again. Always the same rips, always the same smells and stains.

The father returns to his den, and continues his reading.

The mother says quietly to the father through the wall.

“…the harvest is early this year…I thought we’d have a little more time …just a bit more with him, before….”