An ode, or not.

How fragile was she?
For she broke like a glass,
sometimes a mirror,
she spilled like rum sticking to the floor.
How malleable yet again,
for she went from form to form.
Her in the now,
a little dolphin under the sailor’s sight,
then again a star losing its light.

She would want to be like her,
a character built,
maybe born.
A voice that breaks the equilibrium,
understated yet powerful.
She couldn’t see how her beauty,
so charred much like her mother’s,
from the charcoal smoke of the occult house.

Her fall like the orchestral encore,
gracefully followed by a bow,
uproars, shifting bodies, applause.

To me she was but a shadow.
She could rot a room clean,
be the dead flower over the caskets.
She could be the whimpering sound
I heard. Mostly, a dead dog’s cry.

But she was all in all her hurt pride.

Jill came tumbling after…

I thought tonight I will write you down not like a memory but like a burning desire, a desire that had taken the flesh off my bones. I could see the liquid skin churn, fester, leaving a smell behind that made me choke with tears of fury. Tonight, I thought I’d drink you down like something from the past that wasn’t worth the money I spent on my bus ticket. I spent so much on the alcohol, a little on the conversation but more on the food and yet there you were staring at me with blank eyes. I thought I could fill them with love. I had truly believed I could give you what the world had robbed you off; the sheer propensity of my protectiveness made me hate my guts. I would writhe in the pain of not being able to be the one for you. Here I am still writhing in the same pain. Such are the decisive risks we take. I was sure of the risk, I didn’t know how I’d take the failure though.

You’re sometimes the heartburn of food I fill my stomach with, it pleases me. I know it does because the taste of a good cheesecake is undeniable. You’re sometimes the ashes from the 28 cigarettes I burn my insides with. On most night, you’re the memory I push down with re-runs of a show I have seen already a 100 times for I can repeat the words ‘pick me, choose me, love me’ in my sleep. You’re so many things. And there you are like we had never met, like we never knew each other. There you are a perfect stranger staring at me from behind the curtain of an expensively built facade of respect, popularity and shameless greed. You sit there looking at me like a fellow traveller, maybe who was destined to leave me with no cash and I am destined to perhaps laugh about it.

I began to write you down, here I stop to think of words for mostly you’re an uneasy space in my chest. I don’t know how to knock you down; whether to soothe you with an old fashioned or to eat you up with ice cream tonight. Binge watching would help. As I seek some comfort in words, I remembered you with a friend over a fresh brew of beer – you were just a good date on the calendar and it happens to coincide with my existence, you were a fancy lamp on my naked floor of which shadows are hard to part with, you were the cold winter night or a comfort of a warm quilt, you were the friend on the phone at 2 a.m. disinterested in my woes & worries, you were the man of very shaky words and I a woman of only words. We were never meant to meet, never meant to be, never meant to see eye-to-eye. So it has to be.

I flip a coin to the next one, here I see again I’m a blank slate but still the black behind which is a whole spectrum of colors dissolved, dissipated and covered up. I think you seem to be an ecstasy, you are another passage of grief and I wished you were a door to a whole new world. You are one man but many, it was to be a different story yet a version of a sigh from years ago that I gulped down with a few L.I.I.Ts & old rock songs.

Would you try and not take me up on my offer, it would be good to know that denials happened sooner. For to be here after so much mental exercise for a lazy soul is a painful climb up the hill alone.

Accidental Death of a Mistress

The linen shirt, black & lifeless,
hanging alone in the dark;
It mourns the loneliness too.
Should I turn over the page,
maybe there was a comma I misread.
There is the dull morning that waits,
I only have 6 hours to breathe in the lull.
For there is the sound,
that writhes with the pain,
the sound of someone typing some words down.
Shall I look? Take a peak.
Maybe,
mistress meaning has chosen to lay
not here but in your slumbering verse.
Won’t you wrap her in your arms,
soothe her pulsating neck with a kiss?
Look straight below the mountains of her breast,
into the tiny hollow valley of her womb,
won’t you?

Ask her.
The madness she invites for when she walks away,
quietly out of their sentences,
leaving her lovers looking for traces of her.

She’s a twisted little bitch,
but a proud one.
I bow to her graces for when she enters me,
for a moment I feel impregnated with a thousand lies.
I yearn for her touch,
when she holds me in her grasp, I almost feel hopeful.

The last I saw of her, meandering,
like a careless deer in the woods.
Couldn’t she see the man in the black shirt?
Even the sullen tree shook,
In that moment, it knew more.
He bore with him the nude ego,
it took a shot in the dark.
What learned men couldn’t capture, he killed.
In a reckless play,
He found, forgo & finished the spells of Faust,
riddles of Chanakya…even the plight of Plath.