Curtaincall

 

On today’s late-night show—

My bookcase sitting against the wall,

And the dreams shelved inside.

Would you look at the moonshine,

Waltzing across the glossy veneer,

Never quite stepping in.

So remain hidden,

Fractured treasures of our past—

Tattered parchments. Yellowed maps.

Rivers trace the creases of your rugged hands,

Tugging at the skeletons of my sunken ship—

Epics of my Atlantis.

Enter Sandman—

Shove me into the blackest abyss,

Just before our Pas de Deux,

When tangled letters of your cursive hand

Scripted the ending credits of your biography.

Somewhere in the silence, I’d reclaim my lost city—

And the precious peace I left behind. 

But scratch these sentences. Skip the histrionics.

It’s time to drink the truth.

The moon bears witness to this pristine moment.

Intoxicated in hues of charcoal grey,

My soul pines for a certain ghost.

The spinning bottles point at you:

Our special guest tonight.

The books stay unopened.

You left me out of the final act.

I could keep the silence—

Maybe hide behind the curtains,

But will you finish what we started?

You’re the star of my show.

And the show must go on.

A Carol for my Satan

To breathe in, black out, say grace ‘fore I push you down the hill, 

To burn the cards and swallow all your cash just for the thrill,

To plaster broken souvenirs and fill your blood within-

Blood I dip my paintbrush in to dye my wolfish grin. 

To smother you in scented smoke, to pet your pretty nose, 

To pluck out tens of tiny thorns, then gift a poisoned rose,

To shake your hand in solemn faith, then kiss your kindred slayer, 

Confetti on the battlefield, salvation in my prayer.

To write a sordid verse, to hope, erase the fiendish thoughts,

To learn I cannot kill the snake I so devoutly bought, 

To bury all my knives and tools, my gory time capsule, 

Till this lust for godly thoughts trips down some unread fool. 

Wiggle Room

 

It took me a while to wipe off this quicksand. 

Yesterday, waking up felt like a chore, 

Each sunrise demanding a new veil to wear, 

A new bridge to cross, a new bird to kill, 

Killing  to draw the straightest circle.

What kept me grounded- 

My infinite checklist of errands, my bottle of tears, 

My own little Animal Farm. 

But when I weave twenty years into a single day, 

My arms feel light and supple, 

legs strong enough to wade through the monster’s drool,

So I hope you may see-

That in my giant cauldron of expectations,  

The desire to know it all slowly simmers, 

And burns, and fades into dust-

I am not the Jack of all trades but the master of one.

 

I do like the sugar rush and spilling out of the hourglass,

And out of my cauldron, out of this filthy quicksand.

Outside textbooks, it's always a zero sum game, 

Where the skies don't have room for all of us,

Where the kindest man is last in line.

I hope you see the chalk lines I drew, 

Between spirited and slutty, 

Between a friend and a fool, 

Between words and feelings, 

And outside my heart and home. 

A phoenix rising is cliche,

So now, you deal with me. 

The Space between the Smiles

Your dreams are specks of fireflies,
The train to Neverland is in shambles.
Do you even think before you play?

You masquerade as this paragon of perfection,
Trudging on the red carpet, starting a fire with each step.
Plumes of the birds you kill, plaintive hearts you break,
The tunnels aching to swallow you—
It’s all etched in my crystal ball.

You are trapped in a castle of mirrors.
And the dragons drool as they guard you.
You blind yourself with synthetic sunshine,
Your sanguine eyes stare back at you deceitfully, promising a God.
Your legs are giving way.
Prince Charming is on holiday.

What do you lust for?
A lonely planet, Glory Days,
Or perhaps a heartfelt handshake?
Why is your temple sinking,
and your visage screaming help.
Why are your angels flirting with the devil.
And your eyes are hiding it so well?

You're far too broke for gifting hope,
A princess stuck in a paper boat,
A mental killer on the loose,
but don't you let the hope kill you.

 

Alice and Bob

Bob is a wistful piano piece,
Strong and sugar and soul and sleek.
Little do all those pretty girls see,
that good old Bob only wants me.

Bob is a bottle of sparkling wine,
Scented candle, sharp as ice,
Puzzles, chocolate, nineties clubs,
High on hash but low on love.

Bob has a weathered antique guitar,
Strums it slow beneath our stars.
"Think he likes me," "Yes, he does,"
But his hair light brown, his hands too rough.

Bob keeps Teddy, fluffy and pink,
Keeps it secret but not from me,
Peel back petals of stone hard skin,
There shines a velvet heart within.

Bob hates curtains, window blinds,
Dungeons, darkness, smell of fright,
He tastes the rain, soaks in the wind,
Catches a cold then leans into me.

Bob hates shadows and mirrors and clocks-
Chased their wheels his whole damn life.
He wants to go far into space,
paint our love in a brand new place.

Bob hates divas, TV Queens,
Thinks the papers haven't yet seen me,
Mountains, beaches, likes them all,
Says my heart is all he wants.

I sometimes wonder if worlds apart,
I was lost in a daydream chasing the stars.
All my dreams born into reality,
But my reckless heart stayed with Charlie.

Delirium

This vintage French cafe,
Tucked away at the end of the alley—
A retreat to lunatics such as myself:
Birdwatching and daydreaming,
Songs, sermons, Dickens, Dickinson.

Little infants frolic around my frock,
Bemused by my response, or lack thereof.
Now and then a prince stops by,
for champagne and strawberry tart,
But this heart no longer flutters—
For a prince or for a pint.

Mediocrity creeps behind me—
A silent devil yet the loudest truth,
But ha, I already live on the dark side of the moon.
She asks for my order, I say I want nothing,
But solitude in the face of this synthetic sanity.

Reckoning

At last, I see you.
Resting in solitude,
Unaware of your morbid signature,
The putrid stench you so generously ooze with every stance.

I know what lies behind those eyes.

Plastic roses, crooked culture,
Saline smile and scheming vile,
Words of honey yet hollow, trite—
Ensnaring me in your devilish sneer.

And yet, you dare to sit here in front of me.

The crass cacophony bubbling in my mind,
Asks me to peel out your skin and gouge your eyes out.
To whisk you to my inferno—
Feed you to the demons,
Mutilate your hardware;
Whilst a gospel of gory vengeance,
Drown you in my boiling tears.
And perhaps I will.

Welcome to Judgment Day.

Citylights and Thoughtscapes

This city mellows down at night.
Nine o’clock strolls by the silent river,
and I adore the scent of the moist mud.
It has rained today.
The citylights pierce through the mist,
fairy dust shrouding the square.

My eager eyes wander to the grandfather clock—
it stands tall,
glorious in antiquity but tormented by time,
time.
Time is my greatest traitor.
It took my youth; it took everything.

I still remember that satin gown.
They haven’t stopped selling it, have they?
A bit further ahead, there it is—
gracious as a virgin bride,
gleaming in the moonlit night.
The mannequin looks beautiful.
I did too, once.

I suppose it’s stashed away in my mother’s trunk
with the thousand trinkets I had as a child.
They call it a time capsule now.
The children love it; it’s become their tradition.
But I never opened that trunk—some things are best hidden for life.
It lies in the attic, the wood conquered by moss,
Where sunlight refuses to fall.
It smells of nostalgia, of hope,
of things long forgotten, but never lost.

And then, there’s the mud.
Sunshine or rain, it’s always the same—
moist, sweet, thoughtful.
I pretend I never sat there by the river,
washing my feet bruised by the cobblestone;
It wasn’t my idea.

I try to see it all with different eyes,
but don’t you see?
All I want tonight,
is to be with you.

Unwritten

Amassing my efforts, I wield the pen
With the blank pages staring at my face,
Wondering what would shape from my trembling hands—
A Shakespeare.
A ballad bathed in feeling,
A song of innocence,
Peter Pan, which Mother read to me every day,
Elegies of the dear, eulogies of nature.
My palms are drenched in sweat, fingers fixed:
My hand refuses to move despite the constant effort.
I feel my skin melting, along with my mind.
I battle against myself and refuse to embrace the truth—
I cannot write anymore.

My emotions have buried me in a grave of nullity.
Aeschylus’ words stand hollow, Dickens’s worlds desolate;
Wordsworth stares me in the eyes, reproachfully—
almost as terribly as these blank pages
that have become a phobia.
Words of ink I have always sought,
but shy away each passing day;
and perhaps they will remain so, forever.
My feelings wilt in the storm of insanity,
and my forsaken grave beckons my pen.
Nothing.