Your soul was made of rubber
Your soul was made of sleaze
Your soul was made to bite the dust
And help me shoot the breeze

The Trip

Leaving, the dead leaves fall to the brown earth and the wind whips up a dust storm. The environment is grieving, wasteful and wanton. She's been here a while and it's time to leave again. This time she'll go to that place they've been talking about, that wonderful place that people have been recommending.

"Go", they beg, they plead, "You'll love it there; the people are exactly like you."

She listens, she leaves.

A week has passed, or maybe two and she's back now. The unpacking has begun, characters disembark her imagination and the everyday people flood in.

"Did you not like it?", they ask, "Was it a bad trip?"

"Well", she replies, "It was just as you said : Everybody there was exactly like me."

The river was about 50 metres deep, making the danger of drowning palpable and the sense of mortality real. Swept from the grey sky, the wind blew harsh and the tiny sail boat swayed precariously. A little boy sat crossed-legged at the helm, his eyes were clossed. It had begun to pour and his head was filling quick with images of paper boats that continously floated into a gutter. But suddenly his resolve is as unshakeable as iron. Holding the moment, he exhales; he cleares his mind and a magnificent yellow sun begins to vanquish the steel grey rain.

Dreamer

If I lived near the sea,
Perhaps I'd walk every morning,
Perhaps I'd watch the waves all day.

And you would be the water,
Forever rushing towards me,
Forever rushing away.

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