Sickness

 

He was sitting there

on his mahogany chair

Neck bent down

With snot reaching to his

Jeans from 3 days ago

Hands spread 

resting to each

Arm of the chair

His back was again

Blocking the light 

and you almost see his eye

Casting a blue shadow

Against the red carpets

Intoxicating the room

With old perfumes

The smell of rotting food

maggots

That feed into the flesh of each

And one of those cartons

Black plastic bags

The pure substance

To which hazes the mind

the spiral of things

When there is no sound

But the obvious

Illuminated 

Greasing hair

The oils that lay in the ends

Of his scalp

Behind his ear

That the spilled ink

Does not even speak presence 

To the color

Of this ruin

Whatever he has

Hidden,

it was of character

His innate ability of being stubborn

That it ate his filth.




Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Andalusia

It must be Because of the light That Days are turning to wine There is a painting inside you That encaptures the weather Stealing dimming gray lights On floors The summer's rain Doesn't seem bad Now it has become a song That keeps you away looking At the skies Dreamer. If I could go around the clock Take in a little time Just keep looking away I can pretend to look At the skies I can pretend Because it can be you too Just Let Life be longer Than a minute a day. 🎵: Soren
Read more

In Each Light

The dusk  remembers  the day when it does not see  Its morning in nights  Like eyes  lt sulks  It does not see what it wants  hides when it wants  it leaves a track of dreams  That does not come to life  writing onto a raining day  it becomes muddled  even then the richness does not die  it breathes like a lemon  fragrant such  on a gentle light.
Read more

In This Unopened Letter, I

  “Church had always been like a field of poppies, one day it would wake mid-bloom and tell the Sun to move on. In the nab of thunder, nimble clouds would swarm in the sky, in little islands, to call the day of rain. Soon my window sill would be full of water and days will last in slumber.”  It is important, that in homilies, one must make haste to write of what may stray on one’s mind. This brief sensibility may have been why I had found myself to you, Iris. When you said that what makes us cry in music is when melancholy collides with specificity, at the time I had thought I understood you fully, that in all odds, we were a half of a half, that we shared the same kind of sadness.  I remember you wearing that dress, the one I wanted at Kaash’s, I still want to know what you meant, when I had gone with you that night and we were drenched from head to toe. Had I been upset differently, would you have smiled when you said those words? Would you have brought me to a quieter ...
Read more