Monthly Archives: June 2011
I stand before you, and your eyes retreat.
What is it about the ceiling, the floor, the street ?
Why do you look like you’re talking to a ghost ?
When in fact he’s a host
of your silence, your blankness,
the frustrating proof you are heartless…
Is it guilt that draws your face away ?
Should I keep looking for reasons to stay ?
When you said we were coming undone,
did you mean our love is finally gone ?
“I’m the ghost of his anger;
I’m the snake of his swamp;
I’m the fire of his graveyard;
I’m the ashes of his cigarette;”
I saw a ghostly light…
I came closer, but it seemed to walk away;
I ran towards it. I ran away from me.
I’m in love with it. The will-o’-the-wisp and its foul play.
If I weren’t such a weakling, if I weren’t such a coward, I’d rip your throat off and feast on it until the memory of your lovely face was replaced by the stench and horror of me butchering your meat.
Somewhere she heard he was alive in the alleyway of another planeless city;
Somehow she thought he would fly across the evening and into the blue of her thoughts;
At sometime she’d learned that a bearer of love deserves an ending like his;
Sure of the things she bore as the truth, she attacked the corpse of the poet whose body was surrounded by rats and cockroaches. She ripped what was left of his heart and she ate it like a lion kills its prey. She danced on top of his exposed bowels and she bathed in his smelly blood.
He couldn’t scream anymore. He couldn’t fight anymore. He was dead. The Poet was dead.
And she smiled as she went out on the streets of the planeless city, where everyone was tired of murderers like her.
He was dead. The Poet was dead. And no one cared.
And she ignored the brilliant future she had killed. She blocked out any mischievous thought of remorse her soft heart tried to send her. So she went on, feasting on every foolish youngster that crossed her path.
But he was dead. The Poet was dead. And no one gave a shit.
The Martian astronaut was the chosen one to fly the spaceship to a recently discovered planet. An unknown land that sent goosebumps up the backs of travelers, with its promise of eternal gold mines and never-before-seen knowledges.
The young Martian was anxious and his many expectations were visible when he walked in the titanic spaceship that would lead him into the dark land.
The journey was long and boring to the young wayfarer, and he was dreaming the whole way. The seconds became hours in outer space travel, and he couldn’t wait to get to his destination.
Eventually, he arrived there… but he never came back home. And though much speculation is made about the legendary astronaut’s whereabouts, no Martian ever came to know what happened to him. Some say he became insane, and died alone there. Others say he became a slave of evolved beings inhabiting the mysterious planet…
The only clue he left was a letter, found far away from that land, by a rescue team, on his abandoned spaceship. It was entitled “About the Army of Venus” :
“Trust them and they will stab your back;
Fear them and they will make you their slave;
Attack them and they will break your bones;
Help them and they will crush your hands;
Ignore them and they will destroy your sanity.”
When I needed directions, you were no guide;
When I lost my pride, you left me embarrassed;
When I stepped on my feet, you left me behind;
Now I have a map, and I know where to go,
But you stand on my way like a scarecrow.
Of all the things I learned from you, I think this way of standing still was the most important one. I can look like a stone statue now, anytime I want.
actions bound by desire;
His fate settled by
an organ soon to expire;
That devilish grimace…
a window to her vice;
A long look at her face…
but I think you can’t die twice;
perpetrator of villanous crimes!
Did she really expect to fool me
with all those alligator tears
and vows of “I take thee”?
His heart, an open wound;
His head, what’s in her womb.
Her pity, the saddest flower;
Her strength, in Heaven’s bower.
Beneath their struggle, God’s mercy was dead;
Until their mouths were filled with bread.
And skeptic feelings filled their nest,
As mistrust murdered his chance to rest.
His eyebrow, a thoughtful line,
While his defeat was made their shrine.
“Has her laughter pure malice
– or just the whisper of young Alice ?”
Then fallen to ashes in his defeat,
The sour man was his own fleet.
What the Hell had Alice done
That could make them split so young ?
When asked a question so demanding,
Alice found herself standing:
“I am not one of your rhymes
To be bent down and held in ties !”