In this silence there are no words. Will be back on November First.
Don’t give your love
To clumsy, fumbling fools
For, while they break your heart
They’ll break theirs too.
Stores have stories in them
See her there, that top is for a man
Who leaves her every night for his wife
Who wears a similar top.
He’s going to meet her tomorrow
An ex who tore apart his heart
Why does he care how he looks?
The habits of love die slow deaths.
She bought a set of teacups
Mummy was coming for tea, mummy thought
A chipped teacup is a cracked marriage
Let mummy be surprised when the divorce comes.
She doesn’t buy anything, she can’t
But she likes to walk the aisles
And think of past salary slips
Each unattainable shoe kills her, a little.
His grey hair, black glasses and disapproving nose
Looks incongruous amidst airbrushed brands
He doesn’t understand the prices of this world
He holds on to his fifty tightly, it will buy him tea all month.
She’s the happy one who buys it all
And in the evening she’ll sit on her bed
Surrounded by bags who caress and whisper how perfect
Her life is, reflected on a wardrobe that hangs from her body.
The shop attendant is the quiet one
The one who stares at you looking through him
You won’t think of him until
His smoldering eyes hurt you inside.
When the stores close, they drift out
Each one clutching their lives close
What they don’t see are the price tags
Stitched on to every skin, changing with every act.
A black fly
On a black iron bar
Rubbing its legs
It doesn’t care
About the purpose of its life
Living is its only occupation
And death is
Without hospital tubes.
Two toasts of warm, brown, burnt-at-the-edge memories
A pot of trouble, brewed to perfection
Three slices of love, one pierced by a fork
A shallow, chipped bowl of sorrow
Slightly stale, thought not yet hard
A glass of travel, a twist of fate
A basket of giggles, laughs and scorn
Freshly baked flirting puffs of heaven
A sprinkling of anger, a dab of mischief
A crunch of healthy ego on the side
Half a plate of rusty talent
And of course, eggs swimming towards sperms
Quite well done, indeed.
I’ve fallen in love. With a 100 year-old Portuguese villa, a village in Goa, scores of little birds with colourful breasts, tender pork roast, fish so fresh, it needn’t even be cooked, an armchair overlooking an olive tree, grass (And I don’t mean marijuana), trees, squirrels, rain, sunshine and travelling solo. Thank you Adrian, Aldron’s Tony and Santosh. It was unforgettable and the house has hijacked bits of my soul.
The next 14 entries were written at http://theonlyolive.com/, if you get a chance, go there and you’ll see happiness is, pausing while the breeze does the work.
How do you kiss a man on SMS?
Do verbs become saliva
And adjectives the tongue?
What sort of letters should one use
To get the right smooches?
Is a sharp lovebite
A pointed V?
Or a tender nibble
A gentle Q?
What about the butterfly
Or the darting snake love?
Would an M or a W suffice?
The French kiss must be
A bunch of letters
LMNOPQ, all knotted up
Dripping into each other
Finger fucking across the miles.