Tag: poem

Forgive my verdant embouchure, timidly practised in dark alleys,
and guide my fingers through respite in somewhat hurried pizzicato.
There is no shame in apposition set off by commas, casually,
where every onomatopoeia could lead to spasm, but not staccato.
And when we leave the treble clef, the pilcrow binds all the untold,
giving us little more than what one calls tinnitus, till next time…

I was going to make a proper dinner,
but once again settled for a banana mash
with nuts, Greek tahini and currants.
Cooking for one has become a nuisance,
like intimacy as distant as the memory
of a smile exchanged with a passer-by,
and just as inconsequential.

When did we stop using fountain pens? I used to like the blue scribbles
on the pages of my notebook. And why would someone else’s words,
if one found them not worth the ink, still be kept in the ethereal depths
of circuital shallows?

I’m not looking for someone perfect,
but someone who would trade empty pots
on the windowsill for a good synecdoche
rather than fill them with jade plants;
someone who passionately navigates
through crowded bookshelves and empty
beaches full of sand-coloured pages;
someone who spices bread with a pinch
of Catullus and a dash of Khayyam.
That is the one I would struggle with,
because there are always some struggles,
and finally find out what Winger’s
boomshakalaka means.

As presumptuous as it might be, I think we nailed
the sobriety of all the microwaved expectations
out of the marital freezer, none of which exceeded
the level of spasm. And every time we tried to start over
because of some vastly overestimated ability to overcome
our inclination to numbness, it only ever got us as far
as a momentary inflammation of incarcerated souls.
No wonder we barely made it to our honeymoon
graveyard.

It’s been two years since we drew that bold line
and abandoned the canvas somewhere in the loft.
I gave up the easels. You let the brushes and paints go.
The dust took care of the rest.

Over time, even the need to prepare a foundation
seemed like nothing more than an evanescent reflex.

Then, all of a sudden, you were standing in my doorway
with the scent of turpentine and varnish,
which I could no longer recognise, even if I dared
to brush it with my fingertips.

After you left, I wondered, was it something else
or just muscle memory?

After many a night, when the constant parade of substitute futures
diving into my halcyon booth leaves an aftertaste of a sealed body,
I wander the deserted beach, chased by the enraged cries of seagulls
fighting over the garbage, looking for an excuse to shed my wet shirt.
How pathetic. If only I had remembered to bring a bathrobe or towel
instead of a fig leaf.

“Words never rust, I promise.” That is what you said, remember?
Yet, it still feels like mocking Harlequin and Columbine at Tivoli.
And you can’t even wink now, once we have played all the classics
we never intended to. On second thoughts, perhaps you are right.
Maybe it is not rust, but the deceptive patina of well-kept devotion
to righteousness.

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
as if my life depended on it, what is the cadaver of me
if not just another of my favourite contraptions?