Flash Fiction Friday #22: When I Drink


(ah find d permalink! plus the link for the blog itself is HERE. also, i don’t drink. seriously).



when i drink,
the warmth trickles down my throat,
settles in my tummy for a moment,
then rushes off to curl my toes.
the warmth then moves to my head
to cloud my judgment,
heighten my thoughts,
and dull the reasons why i don’t think about them.
the warmth then envelops me,
heats the tips of my ears,
then whispers into them,
and tells me i’m invincible,
and so i am.
but eventually the warmth dissipates,
the toes uncurl,
clarity returns with a friend,
the pounding in my brain,
and i’m left with the cold,
and just how invincible
i am not.

Speak


Speak to me,
Write me a letter
With your spray-paint pens
And emulsion ink.
Tell me your wants
Tell me your needs
Your dreams,
Tell me what you feel
Show me
Yell it to me
In the brightest colours
Of your rage
Your joy
You passion
Your sorrow
Your visions of future,
Past,
Tainted utopias,
And perfection in chaos
Shout at me.
Shout at me,
Make me listen.
And when I am listening,
Remind me,
That I too
Should be speaking.

The Journey


The move from
mind to pen,
pen to paper,
paper to
keyboard,
Word to world,
Is a journey
where
thoughts are
lost
found
replaced
like baggage.
Filled with
love
hate
need.
The need to be
read
shared
understood.
They cannot stay
under wraps
under your wing
underappreciated.
If you love them,
begin the journey,
set them free.

Ode To Cigarette Adonis

I’d like to make it explicitly clear that I am not a smoker and this poem is a glamorization of something that happened this one time….


Ode To Cigarette Adonis



You slip outside,
Cigarette in delicate hand,
And your perfect lips
Pull a pouty puff.
You tap the ash away,
And I feel it cry
Anguished at the loss
Of your closeness.

I thank the fates
Your languid draws
Draw out my time
To bask in your glory.

I take furtive glances,
Least the heavens
Punish me
For daring to stare
At their most precious.

You take your last drag,
And my heart breaks
As the butt goes the way of the ash,
And is crushed elegantly,
Artfully, under your boot.

You leave, but not before glancing,
And smiling,
At this poor pining mortal.

I never see you again,
But ever so often
Outside finds me
Cigarette in hand.
I do this
In memory of you.

mama doesn’t want to grow old

mama doesn’t want to grow old.
bones breaking,
mouth drooling,
jaw slack,
some one to
clean you
change you
chew and swallow for you.
mama saw her mama
whither.
prisoner
of her feeble body,
jailed
by her failing mind.
a sliver
of a shadow
of her former self.
mama doesn’t want
to lose her mind
or be trapped
as her body
crumbles.
mama wants me
to cut her off
to unplug her
to give her the red pill
and release her.
but mama doesn’t
think about after
mama doesn’t
think about me.
because
when they ask
‘where’s your mama?’
i’ll just say,
‘mama?
mama’s dead.
i killed her.’

Deadly Sins

I want you.
I want all of you,
I long for your lips and body against mine,
And I don’t want to share you.
I want you all to myself.
I covet my neighbour’s time with you,
I envy any look that’s not for me.
What’s stopping me,
Keeping me chaste?
Maybe it’s pride,
But I’d give in to you in a heartbeat,
So maybe not.
Cowardice isn’t a deadly sin,
But it should be.

New Frontier

So funny story about this poem… The timestamp for the creation is the 5th of august 2008. See what had happened was I started this poem and just never finished it… I couldn’t quite find the direction I wanted it to go in, until one night, the fevers of writing possessed my brain, (lol whut??), and it came to me. And so on the 22rd of September 2010, in the late hours of the night, I finally freakin’ finished the poem. And here it is in it’s longsuffering glory. The title is a work in progress. Give it a year or so.


New Frontier


Poetry is the new frontier.
To me, it is a frightful forest
Full of ideals, towering and exotic
Clever words, double meanings
To intrigue and delude
Like a subtle jungle cat
And eat me alive at the sign of weakness.
But in this jungle of irony, paradox and rhyme,
There are no natives
Each man to brave the wordy wilds alone,
Leaving trails and allusions of trails.
No man can charter a course,
Because as quickly as butterfly words
Land upon the tip of your tongue like leaves,
They flitter away,
As swiftly as the slender snake of ideas slithers away
Through the grass of inspiration,
Gone in an instant.
Yet some times it reaches you
Like bushfires in a drought of thought,
Brought by lightening
And raging till it is doused
Or, if left alone,
Consumes,
Burns,
Devours,
Every fibre of your being,
And it wears itself out
And eventually the last ember dies.
All one can do,
Is not move too fast,
Too suddenly,
Least you disturb it
As it falls,
Springs,
Becomes,
Is,
As delicately,
As remarkably unremarkable
As a falling snowflake,
And capture its beauty
With the paintbrush of your words.
There it is. Can you tell where the two year gap is?