I have never been particularly fussy—a glass of tap water and a piece of contemporary drama would be enough to nourish the body and soul of my own creation. So, spoiled by all the words I read by the dim light continue reading
Tag: life
A silent film
Sometimes I wish life had a better score than just the foleys. It could be that I care so much about the music because I have a precarious influence over the script and the direction seems, to say the least, uncertain, and yet, continue reading
It is what it is
A man’s whole life in a single stanza—what would that be? An arbitrary anecdote with a half-baked punchline over a pint of lager that dared to turn into a good work of fiction in the attic of a morgue? Perhaps. But this would imply that it is possible continue reading
By the way
We are going to die. Yes, and we will die in a well-covered silence that changes nothing—see visitors’ beds, which count the strenuous hours of uneventful sleep with the precision of borrowed time—a performance reluctantly paid in advance continue reading
A night train
I had my chance for a happy life, or at least for a meaningful one, and now all that’s left is an artificially prolonged apathetic wait for a prompter to cue from behind the limelights my final line. continue reading
A brief reflection on the meaning of life over a pint of lager
A saddle-goose once saw death’s head upon a mop-stick weeping. “What is the matter, my gaunt bud?” he asked, since tears were dripping, but what could be said at the sound of a bell beyond the timeless continue reading
The peripheries
I was never really fond of yellow, not until I met Miss Georgia Lass. Two seasons later, only a hint of metaphysical indiscretion remained unpraught in the canary shade. And just like that, the realisation came continue reading
Who are you?
Sometimes I wonder who you are—you who read my words. I’d like to think I have affected, perhaps even changed, your life, but I guess it’s just something people like myself fantasise about, continue reading
Passing away
As worn out as a shellac record and just as brittle, I’ve got my mug shot stamped in a book of wraiths. continue reading
All you need
What on earth were you thinking? That you could live your life without subtitles, as if you stood at the fireplace, bereaved but free, burning cocktail sticks and never-opened letters, and all you needed continue reading
The old olive trees
I have never touched the trunk of an olive tree. I doubt I ever will, since they don’t grow up north, where I live, and I prefer to avoid the swelter they thrive in. So as long as I stay here, I will not suffer, continue reading
Watchers
I guess I’m lucky with my undisturbed daddy long-legs sitting on the ceiling with offspring, as watching the thirteen little ones, not bigger continue reading
Honesty is an a cappella song
Holding myself accountable for things not turning out the way I wanted always required a tad more honesty than I could muster at any one time, like an attempt at the mundane touted as an elaborate kintsugi exercise, continue reading
I’m not a bad person
Life insurance covers the event of death, but what insures me in the event of life? So far, I keep my hands above the table, even though most of the time I have no idea what to do with them. continue reading
The cadaver of me
When windows become doors and doors windows, when every next bus stop is a rushed page away, and a kachina doll collection takes on such importance continue reading
All the trinkets of the day
Waking up hurts. A glass of buttermilk and a handful of vitamins as a breakfast substitute and a momentary dedication to oral hygiene measure the effort needed... continue reading
The misery of the poet’s life
The poet was cursing the misery of his life. The small hermitage in the centre of a large city that he now shared with Mr. Nothing and Platocrates witnessed many of his misfortunes. Once conceived ... continue reading
The usual glass of cognac
Hearing the moped passing down the street, Mr. Nothing thought about that morning when, instead of the usual glass of cognac, ... continue reading
The source of footnotes by my bed
I always have a book on my bedside table. The same book, ... continue reading
a napkin
as charming as he may be, a poet is not a husband-material, because sooner or later he will turn your life into a cadence of words scattered randomly across the page. so you better ... continue reading
elusive reasons for concern
as i slowly begin to forget the names of people and places, and the titles of once-favourite songs say less and less, the evening nap suddenly becomes ... continue reading
but life goes on as usual
nights with the prince of cool, dim street lights outside the window, a glass of water enough to accidentally blur a crooked handwritten note ... continue reading
lost on the run
i do not remember if i was young for long, if i had a teddy bear, or if i was afraid of the monsters under the bed. ... continue reading
in pursuit of the reason
i get it; it is more noble to be a widow than a divorcee, and with my broken heart, there is hope. plus, there is also my life ... continue reading
before we go
appreciation for a bowl of porridge comes with time. but first, you will learn to cherish all the little stories of your childhood that your parents unintentionally ... continue reading
a simple man
i know, i am a bit old school. i like cyndi lauper, and jack lemmon and shirley maclaine ... continue reading
a hereditary disease called life
i have never asked to be born, yet something holds me accountable and i have already been punished ... continue reading
hidden pilcrow 