Of lessness,betrayal, and unwantedness


The rain pours down on you, soaking you down with its weight of lessness, betrayal and unwantedness. As the weight of the rain becomes your new choice of clothing, the heart’s blister becomes restless with its tales of lessness, betrayal and unwantedness. And between the weight of the rain and the heart’s blister, you just cease to be, and you are washed off to the drain, along with the city’s filth of lessness, betrayal and unwantedness.

Welcome to The Vortex


Hold my hand;
plunge in
to the vortex
and let’s just turn and turn and turn and turn
and make it all black.

Never let go
of words;
of our hands so joined in this
light sucking tangerined black.
close your eyes.
and you will see.
I see.
golden firefly fairies
forming You, Me
and all the words in between.

All the words that got scattered into the gyre like tiny red seeds before they were remembered,
killing Time
stuck on the ceiling fan.
it turns too.
right to the black dot in the centre.
maybe
we’re in it.

And What Do You Say to That: A response to Carlos


 

This is just to say
The plums
in the ice box
that you ate

and which
you found
so delicious
and so sweet

were left
there
for you to enjoy
and devour.

 


Note to the reader:

This particular poem is in response to William Carlos Williams’s quite famous poem “This is just to say”. And it can be found here: https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/just-say

 

Washed off


Everyone has that one place that they hold dear to heart. The place where they are confident on getting around even if they were to be rendered blind. And then an old photograph pops up on Facebook, and suddenly you are confused because you can’t peg where the photograph was taken. You feel like you are standing in the beach, too close to where the sea and land make love, and the earth is constantly washed off from beneath your feet. And you realize that the place that is so dear to your heart is slowly being washed away, without you even being aware of it.

The Pulse


It is pulsing.

Pul

      Sing

Pul

Gaining momentum.

Too thick to let go.

And so it throbs.

A reminder of an incessant knocking

At the bottom of your spine

That won’t back off.

(You can squeeze your eyes shut until you  see stars on the ceiling of your eyelids)

But, still there.

And you live with it.

Your cross to bear.

See? There is so, so much in a name.

It is all the difference.

It is the difference between that which we call a back ache,

And the pulsing.

Mind numbing, abacinating, scamperring

Effing pulse.

Counting and Discounting


Let me discount the ways,

Memory by memory, little by little –

Let me go back

To the before the beginning of all the counting.

I discount the way

Men go in search of their lost coins.

I discount to stitch my lost pieces into a quilt for when the counting gets tough.

Let me discount so that I can start counting again.

The Question is: Who Cares?!

Ashley Barboza

Life, Love.

Kafila

media | politics | dissent

the Antimuseum in Paris (and beyond)

antimuseum photo blog by Yann Gourvennec

This, that and everything

Contains words like humour, quirky and offbeat.

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