i, icarus.

motionless on the grass,
i can smell the green,
and dream of Blue again.

it is thursday, i think,
could be any day, really,
the sun-roughened tongue
of greedy summer,
has not yet begun
to taste the skin,
or lap up tears from eyes.

it was spring, and i,
was just answering
that desperate need
to leap into the blue.

what better ladder
than the gnarled redwood?
if i climbed high enough
i’d be closer to Him…

i won’t shout for help,
there’s no one out here.
the earth is slow but sure,
it will claim these bones.

so i let the shadows
examine them slowly.

the long fingers uncurl,
one checks the weakening
pulse, another, my eyes.
"let me see inside, open, open!"
a cold spidery voice insists.

do i have a choice?
the bony fingers pry open
my eyelids, "where?
where are the tears?
why are there no tears?
why do you deprive me
the pleasure of tears?"

i try to move, but cannot.
can't even explain,
i was reaching out
to the Blue one
why would i cry?

the fingers lash across
my face, in anger.
have you felt anger
of the shadows?

it is not unlike the unexpected
low branch that hits you
when you ride horseback
through woods.
you know it is there,
but do not know
you would be in its path.
that’s why most people
are afraid of shadows.

there’s a wetness
spreading on the grass.
"feel it? feel it?"
chorus the shadows,
i do. i feel the wetness,
and see the sun
dapple the shadows away.

i know now. i close my eyes.
something in the neck is broken.

summer is here...

 

for the girls

the room reeks of vanilla
candles, or is it stale
ice cream?
i pull the curtains
apart, let sunlight in.

it’s the debris
of a pity party.
women! i sigh!
when will we learn!
quietly as i can
pick up acres of tissue
carpeting the floor.

at least the girls had
style! the wine was fine,
and real French takeaway
from pristine white boxes
embossed in gold.
but the story they told
was same old, same old.

heartache for a lover,
lost to a woman
who had never known
chafing.
she had a gap
between her thighs.
and an IQ that matched
her shoe size…

the coffee machine
signals. it’s time
to save the girls.

mix pink pajamas
and dark Arabica
get bleary-eyed questions:
“where were you?”
“what’s with the smile?”
“please don’t say
Krishna saves.
what do i care for savings
when my current account feels so fucked?”

true. true. all true.
but as the raspy voiced
high priest of rock says,
‘the times they are a…’

“wake up dahlings,
binging on pain is passé.
we girls have to work smart.
we need to learn to call in.
report that pain.”

“don’t waste time
mourning the bastards.
or thinking of revenge.
you really want them back? not!”

“so flash your Visa
Mastercard even.
receive flowers,
Darcy on DVD.
pink Champers to start afresh.
better than calling agony aunties
or crying for mom.
call woesBgone dot com
and outsource the damned pain.”

Betelnut Killers

it's taken a long long time, and finally my story is being made into a film.

and you can be a part by becoming a co-producer with as little as $100

check out the movie that is going to be blogged all the way!

the link is http://blog.betelnutkillers.com


and by the way,
the paypal thing works...