3 pairs of sandals,
Walking all over me.
16 minutes of silence
I'm stung by the bee.
Honey dripping all down
She never cares for me.
A single pair of old boots
Lets hitchhike through our dreams
Open up the doorway
The sunshine coming in.
Let your sexy hair down
We gotta do a jig
Welcome to the highway
Where everybody slips
Light up the candy candle
Heighten up the scene
Pull it baby hard now
The stone gotta seethe
Help me with this one now
Help me let it sing
13 grams of hidden stash
Helps me find me.
C'mon lady stand now
the soapbox waitin' still.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
The Song-Bird
Look at me now. I am quiet. I am not shouting. I am not fighting anymore. Look at us now. Estranged. Separated by a small yet unconquerable distance. It's just one small step that we are so afraid to take. That's how it goes. Look at them. Still laughing.
Defeated, the crown prince exhales his last breath. On the dust before his face. Blood dripping, drop drop on the battlefield. Lips dried under the sun. Coated with blood and dirt. His flesh quivers as the flies begin settling in. Just a drop of water. Yes, that would make him feel better. Remember how she brought him water? And brought him food and sat beside him while he rested his tired knees. Silently fanning, the sweat which evaporated leaving him cold.
Some battles are better when over. For both sides. We are glad our battle is over. We don't need to fight anymore. There is no kingdom to be saved. No crown to be protected. The crown prince is dead now.
Remember what dreams smelt like? No you don't. We can't remember the dead. Look at you now. Ravaged by the hungry vultures, the only necklace becomes your noose.
You loved the crown prince for his flowing hair. When he raced the chariot down the sun. You loved him for his boisterous bouts in the drinking dens of the underground. You loved him when he braced his armour, when he kissed the edge of his sword and set out to bring you the most beautiful song-bird.
What happened then? Why did the ink on your letters dry so fast? What happened then?
In search of his songbird, did the crown prince invade many empires? Intoxicated with all the blood that had been spilled; raising battle cry even in the most peaceful kingdom. Lust. Courtesans. Wine. Gold. Horses. All the riches of the world at their feet. And the song-bird? Nowhere to be seen.
Or was it singing? When the crown prince licked amorous scents off the beauty's breast. When his lingam conquered one princess after another. When he woke up entangled in the black tresses of one queen, in the golden waistband of another. In curled up pain, the virgin princess had bled. Leaving him cold and dry. In the misty chill of the forest, the crown prince set out for his song-bird once again. But it was nowhere to be seen.
Or was it weeping? When the spears left gaping holes in human bodies. When bodies were dragged to the cremation grounds. When the wrong head was burnt with the wrong body. Some battles are better when over. The crown prince wants his song-bird.
Battered, raped, and ripped from head to toe. The unborn dead stares at his mother. The crown prince must go. Find his song-bird.
---
Where were you? Playing hide and seek in the corridors was just an excuse. He stole glances at you. Whenever you swayed down the hallway. With your anklets calling out for him. The foreigner stalked you, shamelessly. It pleased you to allow him. How did it feel? When the coarse straw ravaged your back, while he pounded like a beast on your naked body? Even the horses were aroused. How did it feel, when the bushes in the queens garden inadequately tried to hide your modesty? Where was he, when you dropped your robe one by one?
You knew he was watching. From behind the mango tree. While you stepped into the calm waters, you knew he would come. From behind. Furtively. Only the surface of water was disturbed. Nobody knew the maelstrom which it concealed.
Lovers are destined to die. It was an easy decision. The crown prince will return soon. And rip open your guts. Your heart will be preserved in the glass jars. It's too precious. The foreigner’s skin will be stuffed with dry straw and stitched back. Where shall we display him?
Everyone knows of forbidden love. It was an easy decision. Send out the hashashin. While the prince foolishly believed that you waited for your song-bird. It would be an easy kill.
The hashashin took 140 days and 140 nights to track the crown prince down. All the while, blood dripped down the edge of his sword. While you dripped wet with ecstasy. While nausea gripped him, the nausea of blood and rotting flesh. You smelt semen on your sheets. The hashashin lurked behind shadows. Waiting for his last kill.
---
As the unborn dead stared squarely at his mother’s face, the crown prince let his sword slip by. The sharp clank of metal was the end of a war. The song-bird chirped restlessly from its nest. The prince looked up. A poisoned arrow pierced his neck. Still watching the song-bird, the price felt his energy released. In a violent spasm. His lips dried under the sun. Smeared with blood and dirt. His flesh quivers as the flies begin settling in. Just a drop of water. Yes, that would make him feel better.
Defeated, the crown prince exhales his last breath. On the dust before his face. Blood dripping, drop drop on the battlefield. Lips dried under the sun. Coated with blood and dirt. His flesh quivers as the flies begin settling in. Just a drop of water. Yes, that would make him feel better. Remember how she brought him water? And brought him food and sat beside him while he rested his tired knees. Silently fanning, the sweat which evaporated leaving him cold.
Some battles are better when over. For both sides. We are glad our battle is over. We don't need to fight anymore. There is no kingdom to be saved. No crown to be protected. The crown prince is dead now.
Remember what dreams smelt like? No you don't. We can't remember the dead. Look at you now. Ravaged by the hungry vultures, the only necklace becomes your noose.
You loved the crown prince for his flowing hair. When he raced the chariot down the sun. You loved him for his boisterous bouts in the drinking dens of the underground. You loved him when he braced his armour, when he kissed the edge of his sword and set out to bring you the most beautiful song-bird.
What happened then? Why did the ink on your letters dry so fast? What happened then?
In search of his songbird, did the crown prince invade many empires? Intoxicated with all the blood that had been spilled; raising battle cry even in the most peaceful kingdom. Lust. Courtesans. Wine. Gold. Horses. All the riches of the world at their feet. And the song-bird? Nowhere to be seen.
Or was it singing? When the crown prince licked amorous scents off the beauty's breast. When his lingam conquered one princess after another. When he woke up entangled in the black tresses of one queen, in the golden waistband of another. In curled up pain, the virgin princess had bled. Leaving him cold and dry. In the misty chill of the forest, the crown prince set out for his song-bird once again. But it was nowhere to be seen.
Or was it weeping? When the spears left gaping holes in human bodies. When bodies were dragged to the cremation grounds. When the wrong head was burnt with the wrong body. Some battles are better when over. The crown prince wants his song-bird.
Battered, raped, and ripped from head to toe. The unborn dead stares at his mother. The crown prince must go. Find his song-bird.
---
Where were you? Playing hide and seek in the corridors was just an excuse. He stole glances at you. Whenever you swayed down the hallway. With your anklets calling out for him. The foreigner stalked you, shamelessly. It pleased you to allow him. How did it feel? When the coarse straw ravaged your back, while he pounded like a beast on your naked body? Even the horses were aroused. How did it feel, when the bushes in the queens garden inadequately tried to hide your modesty? Where was he, when you dropped your robe one by one?
You knew he was watching. From behind the mango tree. While you stepped into the calm waters, you knew he would come. From behind. Furtively. Only the surface of water was disturbed. Nobody knew the maelstrom which it concealed.
Lovers are destined to die. It was an easy decision. The crown prince will return soon. And rip open your guts. Your heart will be preserved in the glass jars. It's too precious. The foreigner’s skin will be stuffed with dry straw and stitched back. Where shall we display him?
Everyone knows of forbidden love. It was an easy decision. Send out the hashashin. While the prince foolishly believed that you waited for your song-bird. It would be an easy kill.
The hashashin took 140 days and 140 nights to track the crown prince down. All the while, blood dripped down the edge of his sword. While you dripped wet with ecstasy. While nausea gripped him, the nausea of blood and rotting flesh. You smelt semen on your sheets. The hashashin lurked behind shadows. Waiting for his last kill.
---
As the unborn dead stared squarely at his mother’s face, the crown prince let his sword slip by. The sharp clank of metal was the end of a war. The song-bird chirped restlessly from its nest. The prince looked up. A poisoned arrow pierced his neck. Still watching the song-bird, the price felt his energy released. In a violent spasm. His lips dried under the sun. Smeared with blood and dirt. His flesh quivers as the flies begin settling in. Just a drop of water. Yes, that would make him feel better.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Rest.In.Peace
Thus erupted the violent outrage,
giving way to the calm.
Giving way to the storm,
to the silent realm.
Of the mourner.
Of the dead.
Of the sinner.
And the ones afraid.
So rise my friend,
with reverence and heads bowed down.
Murmur your silent prayers,
and see if she's around.
Around my corpse,
around its shadow.
Near the closing walls,
or the lifeless window.
Don't let her burn my dead,
as she ever did before.
Silence her damned tongue,
before she creates a furor.
About my life,
about my death.
About my love,
my disgusting faith.
giving way to the calm.
Giving way to the storm,
to the silent realm.
Of the mourner.
Of the dead.
Of the sinner.
And the ones afraid.
So rise my friend,
with reverence and heads bowed down.
Murmur your silent prayers,
and see if she's around.
Around my corpse,
around its shadow.
Near the closing walls,
or the lifeless window.
Don't let her burn my dead,
as she ever did before.
Silence her damned tongue,
before she creates a furor.
About my life,
about my death.
About my love,
my disgusting faith.
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