Breakfast Colours

Breakfast is not the same without her, most of all I miss her coffee cup. It was a deep brown, an allusion to her connection with the earth and the arts and all of humanity, in some strange way. It was grounded, and yet it was brittle; it was thin and delicate and well formed. It was her, there was so much of her in that cup. The way the coffee filled it, plentiful and deep with a bitter, sugar-less black; a tone that resonated against the milk white of her translucent face, the vermilion of her mature lips, the royal blue of those peeping veins, the fire tone of her wicked hair. She was a painting, the type that they put behind a protective glass with a sign that reads, 'Do Not Touch'. They should have warned me, too. In a foolish dream I thought the glass was to save the painting from dirty fingers like mine; I didn't realize it was to save naive fingers like mine from getting cut.

Opus

She wore a silk black gown; it fell well, it felt good and it danced about her shapely figure with grace. In that gown she was a song, until the man came around that is.

Disenchantment

Author's note : Please  listen to this, while you read. Thanks

The moonlight is pale. The stage seems set. The air is an ethereal blue. The river is still, its' waters flow soundlessly beneath the tranquil surface. The blue-black sky and the moon's waning crescent paint monochrome reflections on the water. A character appears on the scene, the act for tonight is 'The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy'. Another character materializes from the underbrush and sets a device on the river's rocky bank. Strains of Tchaikovsky's divine composition begin to float weightlessly on the paper-thin air; music becomes airborne. The notes are falling relentlessly into their minds like rain; the cue has arrived. Both men shed their clothing and dive into the river head first.

Aging Gracefully, Together

The singular silver strand shone defiantly beneath the bathroom fluorescents as he examined it in the mirror. He'd never seen it before, yet it appeared to have had an ample career, existing fabulously alongside his voluptuous locks. It made him smile.
--
He turned off the light and clambered into bed besides her warm body. Stirring, she reached up and quietly parted his hair. Drawing him near with tenderness, she gently kissed the singular strand; this had always been her ritual, but tonight something felt different. She sensed the peace within him and knew he'd finally seen it.

Born of Sunshine

She stood before the canvas with a bottle of bright paint in her hands.A bohemian dress flowed around her frail figure, giving her persona a hazy, summer strawberry feel. The dress was a tad too loose, but artists don't eat well enough these days. After several unsuccessful attempts, she had finally managed to pull her hair off her face with an old silk tie. The canvas was beckoning, as if it belonged to her hands. It begged her to fill it up, to ravage its' skin with her thoughts and make it whole; a being akin to the beauty in her minds eye. And she wanted to, she desperately wanted to make the canvas blindingly, brilliantly happy. She urgently needed to scatter that happiness of the days and nights gone by far across the universe. The day was at it's happiest hour and her heart was flying softly within a dream. A squirrel appeared on the window sill, it seemed to make the day brighter and her heart, lighter still. She was about to set the paint to canvas when the disturbing truth jarred her gentle nerves - all her brushes were at his house.

Home

Her fingertips are freezing blueish and her posture is frigid. She passes through the world unseeing as unpleasant daydreams fill her mindspace with ink; terrifying nightmares are awakening. The pale, peaceful white of her inner sanctum is colouring a pitiful grey-pink; in the brain blood mush, she misconstrues her own thoughts. Where once there was a garden; a grey-blue skyscraper now stands defiant. The pesky cats have been culled. The street has changed, but she doesn't notice. The place of her birth; trite & formidable, disappears under the memories it holds. Still she does not recall. Her periphery is a smooth, clean blur even though she's only walking. The house hasn't seen her now sickly frame for years. Still lost in painful thoughts, she stops at the door and turns the key.

2 inches

Almost oblivious, she stood in the rain and she thought, "Raindrops should be measured in smiles, not tea cup shaped gauges."

Checkmate

They saw her at the same moment. With her slender frame, dusky skin and warm, innocent eyes, she looked like a young gazelle. They only stopped drooling over her to fix each other with a piercing stare. Then in a raspy voice, she quipped, "Make your move boy, before I make mine."

Beginnings

She met him when she was merely looking for a scratching post; someone still, usable and uncomplaining, someone to keep her nails sharp. She was not expecting him.
-
He met her when he'd seen too many light-headed, fluffy tailed bimbos, incapable of holding their drinks down. He found her unfathomably refreshing.

Endings

They parted ways on an unkind note, it couldn't be helped and neither regretted it. Years later, she went for an exhibition of his paintings. Strangely, she still found herself, uncanny bits and subtle hints, hidden and camouflaged in all his work. It was as if he'd never let her go. Suddenly she knew why his exhibition was titled, 'The Perennial Muse'.

Universal Hippy

His hair was unkempt - dirty and matted and his grubby T-shirt had a large hole on the sleeve. When she saw him, she didn't want to go near, but something in his eyes drew her in. His spirit was liquid; warm and flowing like his inviting body language. She looked at him for about 30 seconds and then realized that he was the type of pretenseless person that anyone could talk to - the type of fool who opens his heart and head to strangers. So she moved closer and he got warmer, this was easy for both of them, not surprisingly. Soon they realized that they were the same - disciples of love - spiritual beings having a human experience. And when they touched, they touched with their hearts and minds, not their fingers. He left, she left, it doesn't matter; they're travelling the world together.

Sugar

Her plaid shirt makes her appear tinier than she really is. The lines fit along her narrow body like a grotesque sign of malnourishment; but she's happy and healthy and well. Her thin childlike arms reach into the box and bring fourth a stick of candy, "Here, I'm leaving", she says with quiet ambivalence. You clutch the candy, hoping it will attempt to fill the void that her tiny frame leaves behind; but it won't and it doesn't, because it can't.

Catch 22

He wants her to care, then he doesn't.
He cares too much, then he doesn't.
Their eyes don't talk, like they used to.
The times are the same, but they aren't.

Swan Song

She had always been nothing but freckles. Her body was a canvas of tiny spots, speckles and botches. In kindergarten, the cruel kids had called her 'Dotty'. But as kids often do - she grew up, shy but well - demure, mature and kind of spirit.
--
Twenty years later, she met him at a party. An artist with a penchant for interesting skin, his muses always had spots. The moment he saw her, he knew he'd have to kiss every freckle on her body before he was satisfied.
--
When the police broke into their lovely house with pretty white walls, they found a picture of her bespeckled skin in every room. The neighbours said, they didn't invite people over. They were content in each other's company. Happy. Happily ever after.

Finally

The wallpaper is old, the paint on the ceiling is too. The curtains are filled with well-settled dust. Twilight is slowly setting outside as a pot coffee brews silently. The day is grey and the sky is too. The only sound in the room is the whirring of the filth-laden ceiling fan. In the ancient dinning room, the couple begins their supper - pancakes and ice cream with maple syrup and a side of stewed strawberries. If this was your last meal, you would eat well too. The coffee maker clicks of with startling alacrity.

Terrarium

Insects are everywhere; their kind is brainless, you cannot teach them. They fly compulsively through the ceiling fan like bats and sparrows often do; they never learn. For these mud dwellers, heartbreak is as inevitable as inadvertently squishing earthworms on the payment. Her personal magnetism draws them in; and they fly towards her like moths to an electric bulb. But pests never amuse her, she wastes no time swatting the flies. Her cool demeanour causes them to drool at her feet, they snarl at each other like snivelling dogs. Within days they attach themselves, teeth first, to the flawless, lukewarm skin of her feet. "Humans are like leeches", she mumbles, discarding them one by one with a sprinkle of salt and a viscous cigarette burn.

Autor's Note : Thank You for the thought, textualoffender

Edges

It all began with a tiny paper cut. As she flipped the page, its' edge rose up to one dainty finger and the blood began to spill. The tiny cut had barely healed when the edge of a bookshelf scrapped the skin off her elbow. Next she stubbed her toe on the edge of the door. Subtly, the edge of a low ceiling bent lower to graze her head. Too soon she lost her pretty smile to the edge of the mirror and her nails were chipped on the edge of a cereal box. Her beautiful exterior was deteriorating as all the edges suddenly got too close for comfort. Yet, the external damage is nothing compared to her internal turmoil.

Devil in Disguise

His fake charm is never elusive. It leaks from his skin, flowing freely from some nether hell. The air before him burns, as the earth beneath him abates; inadvertently, he sets fire to all he touches. Beneath layers of soft skin, libidos are raging; women, both the pure and the wicked, are falling endlessly within themselves. But he’ll never touch their heaving bosoms. Little do the know: the king of hearts lost his cherry to the human spear.

Wasted Wisdom & Youth

Taking off their coats, the elders said to her:
"Beware of wines and voices and perfumes, my child. They will make your
heart susceptible to folly"
But she turned her back and braved the howling wind,
as she whispered, "So be it."

incomplete

looking for a lane. searching for a hook. hanging by a thread. living in a book. waiting on a line. waiting for a look. waiting patiently. waiting for a book.

The On-Off

They talk in muted hums and sighs
Get frisky with their toes
They hang aloof in dark desire
For whence they come to blows

Glossophobia

Her voice reads on, passage after passage from ‘The Great Text’. But something is terribly wrong. It exists with a slight nasal twinge, as if every word is colored by a shred of disappointment and the sunrise never reaches on time. Eventually the words will be lost in the beauty and simplicity of the sound and neither the words nor the voice will exist fully. Thoughts and ideas will never come to fruition; atleast not through her voice.

Indecision

"But that's what you want, isn't it?
"No, not really."
"So, what do you want then?"
"I'm not sure, but it's not this."

Emotionally Unavailable

She worries. She worries that she worries. In fact, she worries way too much.
And all the while the phone was ringing. It rings and rings and rings. In fact the phone's been ringing for days.

Cause of death : Unknown

A cyst was growing, slowing but surely, at the back of her aching blue mind. It filled her head with black thoughts, sour dreams and fear as cold as dry ice, which burns and wounds easily on contact. The snot coloured pulp began as a calm and benign little thing, the product of an ill-used imagination. But it grew untreated with voracity and vivacity that was almost spiritual. Eventually, she succumbed to the inoperable, malignant cancer. The autopsy read. "Cause of death : Unknown", her mother mumbled, "I always told her - TV is the mind killer!"

Portrait of a Chauvinist

He only chose the beautifully crazy psychotic types. They just seemed most delicious to him. But then, after they had broken up and one had slit a wrist, another had torched his house; he wondered why all the women in
the world were madly in love with him.

The thing about cats...

4 am. The bell had been rung twice. He opened the door and fixed her with a look that spelt disapproval, hurt and deceit. But then he threw the door open and let her in, for the same reason that you would let in a stray cat – your heart is melting.

He bends to nuzzle her hair and suddenly sneers into her ear, “ There’s only one thing I can say to you : You’re a dirty, filthy hippy!” But even as he was saying this, he bent further and kissed her anyway.

Beneath the day’s dust, grime and stale make-up, you could still see her smirk of silent self-accomplishment.

Irony

She was exactly his cup of tea.
Unfortunately he wasn't thirsty.

The whispers are as loud as tear drops and as wretched as cries in the night. And they streak down her cheeks and create gradients on her finely made-up face. Hurt can be brutal, but image is something else altogether.

morbid and grotesque
they hover wild around the crime scene
their metallic wings reflecting stars
their ears as shapely as pointed pencils

He held the blade steady as her darkening eyes burnt holes into the back
of his skull. Even under all that pressure he didn't flinch. Then he
swiftly marked her milk pure thigh with a cruel red line. The pain
shoots like burning acid.

The imaginary pain shakes her awake and she's suddenly sitting straight
up, breathing heavily and sweating like it's summer in India. Fingers
levitate to the imaginary wound and the blood abruptly becomes real.

The light is fading and he can’t remember much. He’s forgotten the shine of her hair and the way it feels between his fingers. The way she winces and then smiles at the pain. Her beautiful, bony, bare shoulders under a thin blue blouse. The way her dusty pink lips conceal a smile. He only remembers the words she said as a make-shift Goodbye, “I’ll wait for you, but not in this life…”

Dust swirls at her heels, she walks
Songs stick in her head, she hums
Someday I'll write a book, she think
on the 'Perils of being a Pretty Girl'

Pet Shop

She enters. The dogs begin to bark in unison.

A dust-encrusted radio spits out an old song - Little Richard's band screaming, "Can't help it, the girl can't help it..."

She sidesteps the mangled, the tick-ridden and the runt of the litter. She walks on air as far as her stilettos will allow. Her perfume, as exquisite as it is electric, parts the way.

Walking amongst the most beautiful, she chooses the best and picks him out.

He stands for her.
He sits for her.
Rolls over, plays dead for her.
And then he will stand on his head for her.

She gives the dog a bone.
And then she runs along home.

An as she wanders off aloof,
the store clerk says, "There goes the goose."


Rhyme was never intended.
It walked in uninvited.
To throw a pang of amatuerish my way.

Inevitably the rumour spills forth and shatters; tactlessly, tastelessly, gracelessly. It falls, like a breaking crystal throwing refracted rainbow light; it falls, like the baubles that tumble when a Christmas tree falls; it falls, like a ruined, leaking house of glass. And the stone throwers will be homeless in the streets, but replete with the power of their words. The birds will sing no more for want of a tree, lack of a home. Yet the hornets return to nests once left vacant.

Out-of-Town Strange

As she entered the room, a gruff voice was saying,
"I hate the French! If there's one race I hate, it's the French."

She walked before them; tall, beautiful and confident,
but a voice in her head kept saying,
"How I wish I wasn't French! How I wish I wasn't French!"

The memories don't fade easily for her. When she least expects it they begin seeping back. The cinnamon bark timber of voice. The delicate colour of skin. Hair like flowing honey. And eyes, like mystical windows. Finally, the most perfect little ears in the world and she begins to weep.

Christmas Horror

Too soon the sky began to drip. A sudden red cloud covered the earth heralding the beginning of bloodletting season. From the thick filth the leeches and ticks crawled and beneath every Christmas tree they found a home. Drunk on Yuletide cheer, the families slept sound and the leeches came out of the woodwork. Literally.

Colour Contortion

She sat by the window dreaming of coffee as the raven drew near. It
perched itself on a branch and settled its' wings, dark as the thoughts
that unsettled her. The black coffee steamed and she poured the milk,
smooth as the skin of the girl she was thinking off. Porcelain white of
ivory bones, skin of delicate milk coffee and hair of honey brown. And
the sky dripped slowly, filling heavily with tears. The bird was as
sordid and damp as her mind. And the girl in her thoughts was bluer by
the minute.

"Say the word slowly", she said, as she nibbled his ear.
"And say it with feeling, like you really mean it."
"Wed Nes Day", he whispered, wincing in pain.

Terminally Ill

The fight was a cruel one, but they fought hard and tirelessly. And within a month, each of them had terminated relations with that one thing that had held their family together.

Lamp Light

His words were reverberating in her head like laughter in an empty room.

"Be careful what you wish for..."

And all around everybody seemed to be smiling away, smiling at everyone and everything but her. In this place, she thought she'd get by on a smile, that people would be warm to her because of her lovely face. But her fair skin paled a sickly gray as the locals moved graciously, luminescent, comfortable in their beautiful skin.

She opened her mouth to speak but realized how useless her words were in this place of boundless beauty. The infinite pale had made her taciturn. When the shroud of darkness fell like a mosquito net over the watery city, she crawled beneath a street lamp and begged the invisible for dreamless sleep.

The lines run deep into his face like rivulets that pour into his stock white mustache, locking his mouth in a parenthesis of resounding laugh lines.

He's tired of dreaming other people's dreams. He's tired of pulling the darkness from the sky at the crack of dawn so that the ungrateful can crawl from their comfortable beds. He's tired of bringing the sun to half-mast at noon and putting the clouds up for the one's who complain about the sunshine. And then tired again of building up the soft moonlight so that young lovers can be inappropriate on city park benches.

He seems smiling, even when he's not, perhaps that's why they take advantage of him.

Kink Unlimited

He stared down at her bright red stillettos; 8 inches of bloody murky heel - dangerous enough to spear your heart right through.  Her gorgeous legs quivered from the unwarranted attention. With shoes so sexy, who needs a pretty face, she thought.

Love, in dishonest times

He flicked an invisible switch and the ceiling over their heads disappeared without a whisper. Starlight beamed gently into the room, bathing it in shades of ethereal blue. The moon shone pale, dishonest with secrets that it tried to hide. As she looked up, a shooting star darted across the black ink sky. She placed her hands firmly in her lap and began to twiddle her thumbs, it was all she could do to keep her hands off him.

Winter Song

He returned to the little brick house in the valley, in the exuberance
of summer. Flowers were blooming everywhere and cold winter frost was
a distant memory. The little wooden door was exactly as he remembered
it, even though the last time he walked through was two decades ago.
He was old and grey now, and so was his little lady. An aching pain in
his heart said she might not let him in, after all the faces he's
seen. But he knew that her love was true. She'd spent the flower of
her beautiful youth in his memory and every sunshiney day taking care
of his children. Now there would be no dancing in the rain or making
angels in the gentle snow. They were both terribly spent and the
winter of their love had begun, but he thought they would salvage it
still.

On certain days, she was merely a distraction. He stared sleepily at
her, across the boardroom and dreamed of more than her brains. This
happened often.

To be continued...

She walks through rows and rows of sodden books, feeling at home with the smell of mould. These books are probably old enough to be my father, she thinks and giggles involuntarily. Suddenly a thousand eyes are glaring up at her wondering why a girl would giggle to herself. She thinks nothing of it and goes down the line.

Moving along, she falls into each book. She must feel it voluptuously beneath her skin, before she can take a book home. This has always been her personal practice. But as she moves down the line, she knows she’s being watched. A young man follows with diligence. She wonders, Could he really be interested in all the same books as I am?

To be continued...

Sans Souci

“You should see her in trousers”, he said.

“Aah, the darling girl!”

“She looks so good in them; you’d piss away your dreams to have her”

“Wow. I bet you’ve seen her without them too, right?”

“Well…”, he purred like a milk-fed kitten, “let’s just say I sold my soul, one dollar at a time to get her there.”

“Totally worth it! So where do you plan to sleep tonight?”

The former is response-less, he melts into his scotch with unfailing dignity and smiles.

"Sans souci..."

Inspiration:

“What can I do? What can I be?
When I'm with you I want to stay there
If I'm true I'll never leave
And if I do I know the way back”

- The Beatles

At the stoke of midnight he got out of bed. He tapped her gently to
make sure she was still sleeping. Then, he got dressed with lightning
speed and prepared to leave.
But before he left, he went to her bathrooms mirror, picked up her
darkest kohl and scrawled in in unmistakable cursive, "Think of me
tomorrow 'cause I'll still be thinking of you"

Orange Light

In the stillness of the aching blue morning, neither has the strength to speak. Silence stirs restless between them. It descends quick into an endless chasm of black pain, flying swift on the wings of a menacing bat out of hell. Yet they move, skin on skin in the lifting shadows. Dark eyes move tender and the silence is torn by blades of desire that cut deep blood red. Skin on skin again, and all those nerve endings tingle bright passion pink. They taste touch, those nerves. They lick in the sweetness of the air and saltiness of an early morning sweat as it begins. They breathe each other's very being. The sunrise bathes the walls with gentle orange light as they rise and fall slowly - separate, yet together. Like the flash of dawn they know what it is and they feel all they could never live without.