Monthly Archives: May 2010

47. claiming the world

what does it feel like to claim and not be claimed?
i used to know.
i remember knowing, living for the memories. and recollections come and go, but it’s been close to never since that was me, claiming the world without giving anything back. and the gold thread of freedom trailed behind me, uscathed, untouched.
now, that thread, ulcerous tail, no longer golden, only appears when there’s a total eclipse of the heart.
it’s my firestarter, the shot signalling a race, a way of loving myself more by loving you less. 

and it’s nothing more than a joke – a special effect amidst an action movie; an actress screaming as ketchup flows from her imaginary wounds.
for you have become my all, mi vida, mi corazon.
you have claimed me, like france claims you again.

tonight, tomorrow, for days on end, you leave me here alone. no X, no Y, no admirers, no other loves. i cut those golden threads leaving only one.
my tarnished freedom. my back-up plan.

and i leave myslef vulnerable to you. to claim.

and maybe all i ever wanted was to be claimed, my rebellions just a show so that when the curtain call was done and i was in my dressing room, all alone, taking the make-up off my face, someone, anyone, would walk in and force me to my knees, making me love them without loving me back. 
and then, i would know what it was like to love a spy in the house of love. 
then, whatever i thought of them would be what the world thought of me and i would feel whatever the world felt after i claimed it.

and none of it would matter, because the world would still be mine.


to love a woman

what is it like to love a woman
with tears like early morning rain
whose liquid sunshine, burning passion,
reminds you of the way you,
summers past, years ago,
magnifying glass in hand,
burnt a hole in drying grass?

 what it is like to love a woman
whose eyes break open the glass ceiling
just like they shatter every man,
whilst rinsing fear into your blood;
that which never quite fumbles for your heart
but manages to stop it still?

 too benevolent to kill

 what it is like to love a woman
whose humid breath
warms to the core of every cell
until you think you know her well 

what is it like to love a woman
for whom love flows like molten ice?

46. like a disco

how did i manage to walk this yellow-brick road and stumble into the emerald city without any sense of realisation? without triumph or glory? without stopping to admire the view?
how is it that i almost can’t remember what my Auntie Em looked like or of how i’ve grown into these ruby slippers, mine by default and no more?
and darling, how comes it none of it matters any more?

my past is past. 
i remember i worried that it may not last. that it’ll lose itself in the water of oblivion somewhere in the base of forbidden fountain. but i know now that the cyclone that brought me here will never return. that chasm has been closed off forever as of today.
my citizenship application has been successful and i am ready to see where else this yellow brick leads.

so here i am now, cruising this jade-encrusted city, as the green glass glitters in the pale light of the setting sun. 
my toto has run off, or maybe he was never here, but what does it matter? i was always meant to walk these streets alone. and somewhere in the distance i hear the wizard command “close your eyes and tap your heels together three times. and think to yourself, there’s no place like home.”

so i do.

and i remain standing just where i was, the bright lights of london like a disco.
my own private party.

45. almost a tragedy, Shakespearean

dig up the past just to hold its skull in my palm, like hamlet, and exclaim alas poor, Yorick ( or X or Y )… here hung those lips that i have kissed i know not how oft. where be your jibes now?

and that’s exactly what i do. defiant proclamation of my freedom when others rot in dim despair. i rise above them like a phoenix. though dead’s my past love, i’m yet alive to love you.


speaking to X today was almost a tragedy, Shakespearean, or else a Chekhov masterpiece of irony and loss. 
his unhappiness at life, unjustified, seemed clearer, more logical, than my reasoned joy. he has that girl, you may remember? call her S1, for lack of better name. and yet, as i predicted, he needs that push she’s not providing; he wants a mother or else – a friend. but there she is, a girl he has to love back too. that too was never his.

and tragedy or none, he lost all i left him with, those shards of glass my heart had flaked upon his recieving palm. i used them to change him, but they are gone.
snowflakes have melted from the heat. 
and he daren’t say it, but romance to him is dead, and hope vanishes at night, like a fleeting memory of me. and i just wish he’d love her more.

i’m not writing any lyrics for her
i realised they mean nothing

if that is love, then we are lost. lost souls where silence is the only truth. and yet, my love, that doesn’t scare me. my only fixation is that skull, it’s pearly mass so solid in my hands.

alas, poor Yorick.
alas, poor X.

right here / right now

war poets must have loved
with every chamber of their hearts

no matter bullets
raining on the world;
no matter sun
that never did come out;
each man knew love
and he was love, for love was him;

war poets must have loved enough
to fill the world with dead
in the name of living love

right here
right now.

44. justifying some sort of betrayal

as if by reading of my past flawed ways, i am rescusitating them again. and i wish this was nothing more than a metaphor, but as metaphors go, this is a pretty literal one.

and so i’ve gotten myself another admirer.
it wasn’t really a choice, but then again, maybe it was, if only subconsciously. still, the fact remains – somewhere between yesterday and today i’ve gotten myself another admirer. the blond clever boy, the replica of the image of my past perfection.

but that was before you

and it was all so innocent, this realisation that yes he was interested, that yes he was looking at me.
but even in the realms of innocence, darkness resides. me and him shared this moment today and it was all so goddamn innocent.
but it didn’t feel so innocent at all.
just a momentary smile shared, his presence next to me continuous for two hours, maybe three, but it felt like we segragated ourselves from the rest of the group voluntaily, clawing back privacy.


why do i want privacy with him when i’ve got you? why was i toying with you when i had no right to? 
when i am yours.
and so it goes.

and what’s worse is, he doesn’t know. doesn’t know about you. 


sometimes i wonder why i do it all, this inticate web of people cumulating at the heart of me. shareholders in the bank of my love. and it’s all fair: the more you invest, the more you get back, yet logic is not there. flawed reasoning.

but you protest so little and allow me so damn much. you’re scared i’ll run and so am i, my love. that’s why i justify my every word, my every action, my every momentary lapse into darkness.

and we both know i’m justifying some sort of betrayal.
but we daren’t say a thing.

43. and the glass slipper never shatters

our whole life is a mess of those fridays. we know them so well. the fridays when we go somewhere and one of us, at some point, any point at all, ends up feeling miserable.

i’m no magician, my love. can’t turn grey into a million of colours, can barely turn grey at all. but together we almost manage, the shade changing from darkness to light, from dawn to night.
friday was nothing more than that, you must understand. a sort of middle ground for all our ghosts to come out. and mine did. X was there, as was his new love interest, or rather his soon-to-be ex-love-interest.
she goes through men faster than i go through lingerie and yes, we know her. she catches our train sometimes and don’t you just love the way she talks of her life so freely? i never could quite muster that attitude. you know the one: where casual sex is just another bad habit she really must give up; where a ciggie on the sly hasn’t hurt anyone and two-timing is merely a way to make two people happy at the same time.
but no, i do exaggerate.

still, do not think me bitter for i am not. not at all. and it only seems so because i’d rather people see a tint of jealousy in me than see nothing at all.

and you must remember your promise: you said you won’t get upset at such occasions. 
and when the past runs before your retinas again, scanning for weakness, don’t be too quick to give up on our happy ending, where cinderella meets her prince charming.

and the glass slipper never shatters.