I can still feel her fur,
The silky velvet rising with her breath,
Lying over those little ribs,
With a snaggle and a lick,
And a snout to the right.
Those miss you eyes reflect mine,
The longer I’m gone the less she will want me,
Longing to hold my baby,
After being thrashed and burnt at the stake;
By nocturnal witches in spaghetti straps with gravy stains
Breathing in golden and breathing out black,
On the road to the honest world.
I am unaware if this is how it starts, but if my memory serves me right, I’ll begin.
People intertwine with us, as humans, they become part of who we are. Friends and lovers. We choose things together and i agreed to tour a Bombay slum.
These loved ones, with whom i travelled take the train, then are briefed as we walk across that bridge into the darkest despair. Almost a symbol for the depression.
That woman with the child, screeching in her burka for rupees, almost harmonizing with his cry.
In and out of holes really. Inhabited holes for whatever reason. Holes you wouldn’t want to spend ten minutes in, let alone a lifetime. An existence without space, without air, without choice.
Faces you want to love and care for, like lovers or like friends, but the best you can do is just smile then walk away;
Eyes i still see when reflecting my existence, whatever that is.
not 7teen of them
seventeen of them.
Part pink and gold, yes
but seventeen of them.
More than a blip.
A mountain in landscape,
Falling deep into the caverns.
I cant help myself,
But i should.
Unless this is dead.
And all becomes extinct.
I awoke to a black sky,
But the droplets of rain were pink, purple and pale blue;
Shimmering on pane.
A pounding base raising from the floor below,
Fucking throbbing; Pinky Fararge!
As i knit,
To the slow pace of growing teeth.
Drifting on while they play video games.
Looking for meaning or regret. A time filler. Something, anything.
Waiting to die, or balloon. Or both.
Are they waiting also. Maybe we should talk about it.
My life is for you now, as i can’t be bothered any more.
Soon it will be for her also.
This life of distraction. Of searching and failure.
But of joy.
Timid in the real world,
Weak as a lamb,
Until he’s milking turkeys,
Like the turkey milker can.
Lost in a force of fear,
But when he’s milking turkeys
He’s the turkey milking man.
Squeeze it tight,
Do it right,
Last week i came across a blog of photographic collages that really impressed me. Not only is the work beautiful, some of it is political, funny and full of contrasts. It is visually spectacular. Follow the link here http://bpstainton.wordpress.com/ Aesthetic heaven. Stylish and magic.
I wondered about the possibility of a collaboration, and sent a message to the father of the images, Ben. I asked if he would be willing to produce an image to accompany a selection of my words, anything that inspired him. He graciously said yes. The below image, entitled #illuminated Natasha is Ben’s response to two lines from a poem i wrote last winter, called, ” Haunted all the way, by you “.
One hundred million degrees below freezing,
And Natasha buttoning up her eyes,
Bubbling oil heats the cell of cosy,
As the pull of the future helps cavernous walnuts snap into another rise;
As routine marsupials splash with vigor,
Running like cats away from litter.
Winter pallet shifts a tone lighter and lighter and lighter and เบา
Ascending with a drum roll.
A gift of it to that,
Haunted all the way,