Friday, October 17, 2008
The Suicidal Banana
she lives in a world with no adjectives
her biGGest drama
is
the death of a b
a
n
a
n
a
a
n
a
n
a
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Pounding With A Thud
Did you not notice, his hands were not moving?
Did it not strike you as odd, his skewed disheveled body, skillfully crafted and meticulously plastered on a background of things, adorned by you and me?
He lies flat on the ground, or stands tall like a pole.
Crouched or stretched.
Nude or clad.
Always vain and idle and incapacitated, a helpless cutout of a sketch by a talented artist.
This soulful corpse, it speaks of beauty - obsolete yet still tangible and articulate - the way only a courteous kitsch would.
Did it not make you uneasy, his fixed glacial stare?
He does not so much as blink!
Were you not deafened by his immaculate silence?
Did you not register, over time, the staleness of his act or its lame improbability?
Did you not grow weary of his stagnant presence?
His powerful chest however, if you observe closely, is still putting on an honorable scripted fight.
Pounding with a thud.
Like a jaded runner making laps, to and fro, at gun point.
It inflates and deflates.
Loyally, steadfastly.
Expressing dissent.
Producing life.
He sobs.
It's all mechanical.
Poke at him, he won't give.
Even the tremor of life in his frail body to the wake of his dead heart.....
It's cog after cog after cog.
After cog.
Did it not occur to you, that maybe just like us, he was also, hopelessly and perpetually, trapped in thin air?
Did it not strike you as odd, his skewed disheveled body, skillfully crafted and meticulously plastered on a background of things, adorned by you and me?
He lies flat on the ground, or stands tall like a pole.
Crouched or stretched.
Nude or clad.
Always vain and idle and incapacitated, a helpless cutout of a sketch by a talented artist.
This soulful corpse, it speaks of beauty - obsolete yet still tangible and articulate - the way only a courteous kitsch would.
Did it not make you uneasy, his fixed glacial stare?
He does not so much as blink!
Were you not deafened by his immaculate silence?
Did you not register, over time, the staleness of his act or its lame improbability?
Did you not grow weary of his stagnant presence?
His powerful chest however, if you observe closely, is still putting on an honorable scripted fight.
Pounding with a thud.
Like a jaded runner making laps, to and fro, at gun point.
It inflates and deflates.
Loyally, steadfastly.
Expressing dissent.
Producing life.
He sobs.
It's all mechanical.
Poke at him, he won't give.
Even the tremor of life in his frail body to the wake of his dead heart.....
It's cog after cog after cog.
After cog.
Did it not occur to you, that maybe just like us, he was also, hopelessly and perpetually, trapped in thin air?
Labels: Tales Of The Butterfly