lioness, blue, tornado

i was in bed, but got a sort of anxiety/panic attack when i thought about my thesis and all the work i had to do (mostly my thesis, though) so i got up and started writing after like an hour of fast heartbeats and word storming in my head. et voila.

Close Enough

There was once a lioness that longed to be blue. Not for her fur, her paws, her eyes and tongue to be dyed, but for her existence to transmogrify from animal to hue. She yearned with the ferocity that other lions reserved for their prey, so made a poor huntress, stretched thin on impossibility. (Strange how some are intrinsically intimate with unattainable desire, while others are so lackluster in their insect-chasing success). One day, a tornado blustered into the plain, and the lion pride fled; only the wistful lioness stood in its way. Scram, said the tornado, or it will be your end. So I will end, replied the lioness calmly, for I wish to become blue. You will not become blue; you will not be the sky, nor will you be water, nor a bluebell, nor a jay, nor anything remotely in that color, the tornado insisted. I do not want to be in that color, I want to be that color, the lioness clarified. Well, you will not be that color either, you will die, then you will be ashes that turn into dust, and you will be the grey of a dull eternity, predicted the tornado, and that is not a grey you want to become. Better to be unassuming, humble dust lifted in dreaming a futile dream, than a lioness, beautiful and golden, wasted on the unfeasible; a queen with her head and knees sealed to the ground, explained the lioness. Very well, I see your point; it’s an excellent point actually. May I add, that when you are ashes and dust and terribly grey, the wind will carry you around. Being a speck in the sky, you will be surrounded by blue, an ultimate, invading blue, and you may feel that you are part of that blue: seeing, smelling, tasting, being nothing else. Almost, added the tornado. Nearly, said the lioness, could be close enough; come on, now.

any feedback is, as always, greatly, muchly, terribly appreciated.

tab·er·nac·le

–noun

1.

any place or house of worship, esp. one designed for a large congregation.

2.

(often initial capital letter) the portable sanctuary in use by the Israelites from the time of their wandering in the wilderness after the Exodus from Egypt to the building of the Temple in Jerusalem by Solomon. Ex. 25–27.

3.

Ecclesiastical. an ornamental receptacle for the reserved Eucharist, now generally found on the altar.

4.

a canopied niche or recess, as for an image or icon.

5.

a temporary dwelling or shelter, as a tent or hut.

6.

a dwelling place.

7.

the human body as the temporary abode of the soul.

water, cardamom, cinnamon

Anyway,

I was just thinking about how we could
*
I mean, water is free isn’t it? Even if you’re not sure about
*
What I mean to say is, we could just grab a glass of water together and
*
I was just thinking, what will we lose if we got together and enjoyed some
*
You know, I’ve been feeling like maybe
*
You see, maybe we’re not that different just like
*
Well, I’ve always thought of you as a spice, something sweet, something
*
Actually, I don’t know many spices but
*
Yeah, so, you might remind me of
*
Hey, so, I had pumpkin pie the other day and I could really taste
*
I guess cinnamon is what it is, what you
*
No, I don’t usually get coffee but the other day I had a cinnamon
*
I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of it before but
*
It’s strange, the other day I
*
I’ve been thinking, and in a personality quiz thing I might describe myself as
*
Have you ever heard of cardamom? It’s a spice and
*
Cardamom can be used in cooking, for sweet dishes, it’s really
*
Funny how similar two spices can be huh?

-----
please please please give me feedback on this one. perfectly honest and brutal feedback.

beer, love, anger

3 Sonnets

I.
A devil that forces a mirror in your face,
burning titanium shackles locking you in place,
your eyelids have disappeared and you have to see
the familiar distort, in grotesque mimicry
of a beast, savage without reason. This is me
you realize, in the terminal stage of fury,
condemned portrait in the rage of Dorian Gray.
Then hatred invades, vicious strain of self-loathing
and disgust: what you have found, with torches flaming,
in the darkest retreat of soul is too ugly
to endure. How sick you feel, how small and lowly,
but the second ill does not cause the first to flee,
they weaken you together while you helplessly
watch that glass hell and yourself burning away.

II.
When I was younger, every boy I liked was perfect.
I saw one corner then one line, knew he was a square,
up in the air he went. But I never did suspect
that with me down here and he on a pedestal there,
our lines of sight could never possibly intersect.
Then of course, inevitably, the time would come where
I saw more angles that were not right, and would suspect
the inevitable: might he be a triangle?
The geometry of my affections then fall apart,
I wrench him off his mounting, he topples to the floor.
He is supine, I still standing, now I see the door
and move a step closer, but it’s no more than a start.
The wistful pedestal, the memory of four
right-angled equal lines, [can not yet leave my heart].

III.
I never used to like this frizzy froth,
bitter as a loss that stays on tongue when
swallowing is done. Taste recalls a moth
still perched, wings furled: dark, dusty, then
asleep, slowly, lightly laying self down.
But now I have come to find some pleasure
small, in this everyman’s brew, a crown
of good times with acrid tones of leisure.
The trick is tuning expectation low:
there will not be sweet, nor any fancy,
take off those heels, and barefooted go
into a keg of honest, cheap, hearty.
Wine is the candle to vodka’s fire,
beer the occasional cigarette desire.

twilight, fox, zombie

Twilight zone

starts from around midnight just ‘til dawn,
when we are safely by ourselves

when time is a stowaway
the watch negligent (and neglected)

the darkness outside reveals
nothing of the hours

you lean a littlecloser
touching heads, arms, shoulders

silently agreed upon
as raindrops melt into ocean

*
we shrink the world
cut reali ties and set ourselves afloat

these four mundane walls
form our buoyant vessel

our fox burrow, rabbit hole
traveling out to sea

on the winds of goodwill:
there is nothing to think about here

no past
no subsequently,

only this long, elusive rising,
the horizon of a new land

*
there are pillow islands
and down muffled words slow

a flimsy, persistent bridge
shaking with drowsy

fossils unearthed restored slowly,
in warm arms of sympathy

two sardines in an ample can;
you choose contact over space

I think, or maybe I imagine,
within the confusion of a tangled quilt

your front grazing my back
your lips,my hair

*
birds tweet an alarm inversed -
the sky lightens, time to sleep.

*
when we wake there are only two friends in one bed

and something else

not quite alive
but never fully dead.

homelessness, honey, rope-ladder

The honey bear’s dilemma (almost an odyssey)

when it ran out of honey:
was it still a honey bear?

I.
yes,
absolutely

(he knew the prefix to his name was arbitrary,
being named after one’s diet is unfortunate.

still,) it was his name
like green, or ocean,
intrinsic possession.

(the enigma of an identity
is only as deep as one digs ;
he was gladly shovel-free.)

he decided to look for some;
as food the taste was pleasing,
nothing more.

*
the forest was wide
and his strength of paw
could easily procure some

breaking branches
crushing leaves
he walked the forest for hives of bees
and strangely, unnaturally,
finding none, he kept walking
as moon and sun
took their turns to retire
and he began to tire.

finally he saw some bees
and following them excitement-seized
he found their hives and
a group of other honey bears
he thought new friends !
he only found mistrust ugly
when he explained he had no honey.

no honey, no honey? they mocked
you really a honey bear then?

of course I am, I’ve looked and walked
and walked and looked
the soles of my paws are sore like red
and I am weary as a bed
(because beds you know, have no place to sleep)
please, will you share your honey?
there's plenty here, I won’t take much
my tongue just misses it’s sweet sticky touch.

you lazy bear, you lying piece of fur,
how dare you covet what is ours
I bet you haven’t even tried for hours
you call yourself a honey bear, I’m not so sure,
be gone now and don’t think twice
the second time, we won’t be nice.

the honey bear was stunned and left –
his head spinning like a top;
a cleft to his world dealt swift, indifferent.

was he less honey bear without honey?
was he impotent and lowly?

besides, they hadn’t even made the honey
why would they not share
the abundance that was there
chanced upon by being early?

he would show them!
be the early bear to some other hive
fill his belly ‘til it was fat and thrive
as a real honey bear affirmed by wealth
(despite his proud indignant thought
a battle had been lost unfought ;
a dent where certainty had been
a doubt in what no honey could mean
a shovel found unsought.)
*
no honey, still no honey,
steps were weak and lighter now
creasing leaves
bending branches
his curving back a perpetual bow
as he stumbled thoughts evolved,
turning metal developing edge,
a hundred shovels all involved
deepening the dent with his every stumble,
a honey bear falling fell below humble.

why can’t I find honey, what does this mean?
who is a honey bear when he is so lean
on honey ?

*
he found himself in a pit ;
a profoundly empty honey pot
where all he tasted was his own spit
where he imagined he would rot
while dreaming about rope-ladders
and kind paws

he was still wandering in the forest actually
but the tall walls he imagined around him
cast a shadow
and he consoled himself in the shade

*
sticky amber
functional as its demand
took on the value of gold

and he who no longer knew who he
was a pauper

II.
no,

it is now a bear(ly)

4.5 (million) hourS later...

Une petite histoire contre l'infidélité (Logorallye)

Il était une fois, deux jeunes gens qui s’aimaient comme des fous tout en ayant une relation insolite Plusieurs problèmes existaient entre eux : l’homme, qui s’appelait Sel, marchait à voile et à vapeur et la femme, Poivre, était une vraie coquette. Par conséquent, l’idée traditionnelle de la fidélité ne jouait pas de grand rôle dans leur relation.

Pourtant, bien que les deux amants n’aient pas été de radin de leurs faveurs, ils suivaient des règles tacites mais bien entendues. Le corps, visible à tous, était l’outil pour faire (et recevoir) de plaisir, donc il ne devrait pas être retenu dans les mailles de toutes les conventions construites par la société. En revanche, le cœur était caché au milieu de la chair et du sang parce qu’il était sacré et merveilleux (comme un secret chuchoté entre les papillons). Quel que soit le nombre d’amants « supplémentaires », les mêmes règles restaient toujours. La première était l’ honnêteté : le « quand », le « qui » et l’ « où » de chaque rencontre d’un parti seraient dévoilés à l’autre. La deuxième était le dévouement émotionnel : ils garderaient bien toujours le cœur et l’amour seulement pour eux-mêmes. Ils n’avaient pas peur de la perfidie, et dans cet esprit de confiance, ils se firent un promesse : à partir du moment où l’un d’entre eux aurait rompu l’une des règles, quelle qu’elle soit, il neigerait pendant deux jours. Comme ils habitaient dans un pays tropical, une trahison serait évidente tout de suite.

Un jour, Poivre rencontra Vert-Bleu, un vétérinaire qui avait une langue de miel et une vache marine. Il lui dit des choses belles et sucrées ; ses mots dorés et gluants lui firent plaisir. Puis, il lui donna une rose rose. Poivre n’aimait pas de roses, mais elle fut fortement attirée par cette rose sans en connaître la raison. « Mais, pourquoi suis-je si fascinée par cette rose ? Je suis presque joyeuse que vous me l’ayez donnée…» lui demanda-t-elle. « Parce que c’est une rose rose -- cet objet est la plus complète représentation du mot « rose ». Elle est remplie de sens, et pour ça vous l’aimez. » répondit-il. Poivre se rendant compte qu’il avait raison, se trouva soudainement presque accablée par le désir de l’embrasser ; elle avait hâte de goûter la douceur de sa bouche. Vert-Bleu, inconscient de son désir, lui suggéra d’aller voir sa vache marine, qui pesait plus de 300 livres (et elle les tous avait lus). Poivre, qui n’était jamais timide, s’élança vers lui, la bouche prête. Dès qu’ils se furent embrassés, il commença à neiger.

Pendant quelques instants, dans la chaleur du baiser, ils ne remarquèrent pas la neige. Finalement, Vert-Bleu sentit les gouttes de froid qui chatouillaient ses bras. En ouvrant les yeux, il s’écria « Mon dieu ! Mais c’est impossible ! » Poivre ouvrit les yeux aussi et vit la neige – elle ressentit tout d’un coup une douleur dans la poitrine. Elle sut qu’elle avait rompu les règles, elle était tombée amoureuse de Vert-Bleu, et maintenant Sel le savait aussi. « Je dois partir tout de suite ! Je vous retrouverai ici une fois que j’aurai réglé un ou deux trucs chez moi » dit-elle en partant.

Poivre se dépêcha de rentrer chez eux, elle était sûre que Sel serait là, à l’attendre. Mais elle ne le trouva nul part à la maison, il y avait seulement un cœur sur le lit. Elle le regarda de près… et elle le reconnut. Quoi ! C’est possible ? Le cœur était le sien, elle connaissait trop bien ses lignes (les veines), ses courbes (les ventricules), sa nuance de rouge. Mais il s’était transformé: deux petites ailes de toile aux couleurs vives, qui ressemblaient à des ailes papillons, poussèrent des orifices d’oreillette. Elle les toucha doucement, elles étaient un peu mouillés, et il y restait quelques flocons de neige. Les draps autour du cœur étaient humides aussi. Elle fut jetée dans la perplexité : D’ou s’était envolé son cœur ? Il était arrivé de dehors, c’était sûr, mais d’où exactement ? Si son cœur était là, quel cœur était à l’intérieur d’elle alors ? Elle mit la main dans sa poitrine et arracha le cœur dedans. C’était le cœur de Sel ! En fait, ils les avaient échangés depuis si longtemps qu’elle l’avait oublié ; Elle le connaissait presque aussi bien que le sien. Mais il était changé, ce cœur : il se ratatina, il eut la grosseur d’une cerise. Devant ses yeux, dans sa main ouverte, il continua de rétrécir, jusqu’au moment où il disparut.

Sel, brisé comme leur promesse, n’était plus.