Coma.

Eyes spitfire
Dainty dolls ripped apart
Misused and abused

Confined yet reeling and recluse.

The evening was calm, it wore a somber veil of a mourning widow who wasn't even married yet.
The leaves stood erect as a cold breeze encircled the roots of the massive giants that were lined across the area.A miniature sandstorm threatened to rage in the quadrangle.
And as if mocking it the wet sand emitted a divine aroma of wild jasmines and red poison fruits.
The air around the place was of a raw but fresh sexual ardor of a wild child who was as lost as a dandelion parachuting the mid skies.

She pulled her tights up her lace boy shorts.
This was it.
As she broke into spasms of cold sweat in the warm temperature, she let her eyelids drape her pupil and she looked inside of her.
A sharp shooting pain jerked her to open her eyes.But she shut them tighter.
Tightest.
Doing so, the nerve that ran across her right temple tugged at her eyelids.She still didn't budge.
Learning to control pain with anger was the only dowry she could ever offer, apart from herself maybe.

The dandelion cruised the upper skies as the breeze lifted it higher.
Higher.
But as nature swallowed a breath, it hung mid air and drifted before it lost control and spiraled, falling so rapidly into perdition.
A sparrow swooped to beak it and so it did.
The sparrow flew and perched itself on a branch overlooking the inner sanctum of the once intricately worked upon walls of the temple that were now beaten down and in ruins, but it still had a roof.
And a bronze statue.


Tonight was her night.She'd evoke sentiments people never knew they could feel.She had a reputation for it.
To mesmerize.Like one frame on loop that can even make the stillness of the frame seem like a school of herring through the opacity of clear emerald green waters.Gold and Red.Grandeur.
As she let the silk slip down each contour of her bodice, it was like the quick movement of hands of the sculptor who kneaded and molded a woman on fire.
The embers of which had heated her innermost desire, of which was enough to start a forest fire.
And here, she was, ready to make miracles disappear as she proved its reality.
She needed a full breath, those had been long forgotten.
She decided she could, now, before it.
As she inhaled the various scents in the air and those were then satiated after they pleasingly were acknowledged by her mind, and so she stood.
She tried.

The pebbles were ground to gravel as they were crushed by a metallic drone of rusty wheels.
There was a queer silence now, because all the noises that didn't belong were quiet.
The roof looked like a moth eaten leaf, just bigger and more fragile.
It was like being in a kaleidoscope of events.
The bronze statue was cold.
And as it was held, up, the glass of a bangle clinked with cold metal.
The statue would listen, now.

She ran her silk gown over the dust on the statue.
Natraj seemed pleased.
She did too, to see him.

And she smiled as she held him in her hands.
He taught her to dance like a man.
To conquer and mesmerize.
Ans as she lead her wheelchair ahead to place Natraj on his swing.

She remembered of the roof, of faith.
The time it caved in, she was here, then too.
To speak to him, to sit in peace, in ruins, in destruction and its apathy.
To drown hatred in silence and feel it dissolve into tears of bitterness that slid down the softest skin and drenched its dryness which had spread from her heart.
It was cold and dry.
She could dream here, away from reality.


Anklets of clinking rubies and long legs moved in delight.Curls were tied open and they were bounced off her back with every movement of her heavy hips.
Those slender legs that had water dripping between them as she walked out of the shower,her eyes spoke of innocence and mischief.
And a second glance of love her eyes'd show vulnerability of youth.
Of being most comfortable in fetal position, curled up inside her head.
Her eyes did speak, when she wanted them to.
And a quick flutter of eyelids would bring her to laugh, an echoing happiness that buzzed through the head of anyone who let it resonate.


She placed him on the swing and the silence took over again.
The dark caving roof still threatened and the sparrow still coo'ed on the branch outside.
But the dandelion floated over, to her.
And slipped down her endowed bosom as she she nonchalantly frisked it away.
But then she quickly held it back between her palm and pinky.
Maybe it didn't fly a sparrows flight, the one who wanted to fly like the falcon.
But it could drift and still move on if it choose to.


Wheelchairs have wings.
And when there was a road block in her head, she could always come back here.
To the ruins in her head.
To the temple of her sanity.
To the divinity of her conscience.


Forever ready.

PhoenixMourning.

And she wrote for all of them..

I almost feel a word constipation in my head.Or rather the disorder of will to make an effort to write.
I have believed that a writer's block is an excuse of a writer to facilitate his inconvenience and apathy at not being able to meet her own standards.It happens to everyone.
Why do you think people made such a big issue in school, as kids, about consistency?
Its sad we still can't accept that consistency is absolutely proportional to so many things.That not being the point of my post, over here.
It is to tell you, all, that I have around a collective of 7 saved drafts in the past week for this blog alone, that are incomplete.

I'm planning to consolidate all those 7 to make a single one.
Hopefully it won't turn out like my infinite attempts to sketch Jim Morrison.
=|
I can draw some of his features pretty okaly.
:\
And I have exams soon =\

Also I have come to a conclusion about why I don't find hot bodied men fantasy worthy.Not that I would mind one imposed on me :|
Well if its imposition I really can't do anything, right ? :P

anyway.

"Take me, I am the drug; take me, I am hallucinogenic. "

"At the age of 6, I wanted to be a female cook. At 7, Napoleon. After that, my ambition just went on growing. I wanted to be Salvador Dali and nobody else."
(Salvador Dali)

Oh yes, fixation on men.I think I'm secretly a case of mental fetishism for necrophilia.
My first heartbreak was when I learned about marriage and its weirder than just having your dad around.
But I think every kid goes through that, often condemned for being truthful about innocence and it of course being an apparent euphemism for mistake.
Then you get to know that people kiss on cheeks and never on lips anymore.
Then they never kiss.
You're growing up.
Then I almost promised myself that if my physics Sir in school was just a little younger I'd fall in love with him.He was around sixty or something.
After that Marlowe, I had promised to live my life for him, go to Cambridge, in his memory, grave, Rhodes, life was good.
Anthony Beal, I said while I'm at it, why not, find a living companion / fixation, he's too far fetched I think.
Oh yes I must tell you one day of my fetishism for Jim Morrison,I do hate him, you know, like I hate Shakes for being a Marlowe rip off, but I love Speare boy, I spent days and months reading blank verse and prose in BCL.No I'm not a fanboy and I usually don't talk about him for the fear of hearing outrageous things.

Anyway I shall go now.
PMS SUCKS.

Just one Woman Law that everyone agrees to, all kinds of women, manwoman, lesbowoman, necrowoman, norwoman, bimbowoman blah blah

PMS is an EXCUSE for almost anything right from crying about not being able to eat more chocolate cause there's none in the fridge to throwing a flower pot on a random man's head cause he doesn't bleed.
=]
YAY TO PMS.
Dad avoids me completely during such days, I can be a menace.

skittles

He was playing with marbles.
Trotting about like a sturdy race horse, in training, he gathered the colored red ones and put them in a bag.

He quickly stepped away and when no one was seeing, he ran into the wind.

He lurched forward and panted his lungs, his feeble knees supporting his demeanor.
He walked over and sat under the wet grass.
Morning sprinklers were so inspirational.

I looked on by, reading my book at the tree over the corner.

He, was mesmerized by the marbles he owned.
He looked at it, closely and seemed to love it all the more.
He chose one out of the few he had, all of them looked the same.

We sat there for almost an eternity.
He still was at it.
Ridiculous boy, I thought.
But what was I doing there a whole eternity?

I walked over, annoyed at myself for being distracted and also slightly perplexed at why I thought this boy was intriguing.

So I put on the my brightest toothy smile and he looked at me suspiciously.
Whattakid.
Well he told me later it was just that lots of people thought he was a weird kid and they always wanted to find out why.He obviously was oblivious.
I realized I could have just gone on to him without preparing myself to be sugary.
So anyway, he told me he played with the boys and when they got out their sets of marbles, he vanished.
Their other sets, that is.
Red, Blue, he said he liked yellow the least but marbles were marbles.

He ran away not cause he didn't have all the colorful marbles that they did, he ran because he was happy with his color.
He'd have liked to have all of them, but he couldn't and he still couldn't be happy cause he couldn't play if he didn't have the right colors.
I looked guiltily at him.

I left then, knowing that I'd meet him the next day.
Marble Boy, Mmmm.

As I walked along the lane, lighting up, I passed by trees and playing children also dogs, I blew smoke into the air, somehow this time I didn't acknowledge the trees or the children, I just was habituated to their existence.
Also to puffing smoke, to an extent that I was scared I followed a stereotype of two drags per stride.
I stubbed it with my big toe.
I should use my heel the next time.

Shower and dinner were quick.

The boy was sitting the other side of the tree.
I walked straight to him and before my last step, checked my cigs and lighter, I didn't want him to see.
He asked me why I smoke?
Kids, off late.
I need to ask myself that, though.

He told me some more about his red marbles.
He taught me to hold it, he said, I'd get the rest right.
Before I knew, the birds were back in their nests and feeding littil chicks and all that.
We had to leave, the mosquitoes wouldn't.

The next day, he told me about the marble, out of all.
It was his favorite.
The glass was dented, somewhat making it prettier than the rest.
It won him, two others, once.
And he really didn't even mind that it was dented, not until I almost reminded him, before which he told me that marbles are not like other normal things.

So I smiled at him, showing my teeth, this time, it was just natural.
He smiled back, coyly.
I ruffled his hair and left.

Two days later, I went back, walking to the marble boy's tree.
Walked around the tree and something felt wrong.
I saw, THE, marble.

I knew then, he'd never come back.
I knew then, that things won't.

I slowly looked around, lurched forward and picked the marble, quickly thrusting it in my pocket.
I walked on.



-


Thankyou for being the marble boy tappu.

Then there was a life for art.

Clenching teeth and eyes moist with tears withheld.
A swivel through air that was circled by bated breaths, a tense silence.
Another swerve, feet that were accustomed to follow the beat, defying science and the mind.

Raising the dust off the loose foot boards on the floor, the anger of the womb of a hurricane, she stopped, tapped her toes, her eyes full of desire, and as she extended her right leg toward to front, the seams of her plaid skirt lifted, revealing skin as smooth as satin, waiting to be tickled by the meanders on a fingertip.
And just as appetizing as it was to the eyes, she took a step backward, her skirt slipped along her smooth skin.
Like the drapes fall in the lover's room.

Her anklets echoed through the empty room, through the loose floor boards, into the room below, resonating distress of a trapped fly.
She felt like a ribbon, being casually fluttered in the air.

A red ribbon standing out in all aspects of texture, color and ease as opposed to the pitch black setting of a dingy room, been shut for years.

She was fluttering, with a broken wing.

She was twitching as gracefully as there could be but she still felt like a fish out of water.

She drifted like an angel falling from the sky.

Exasperated, she lifted her feet off the ground, hoping the ground beneath her feet would open into a void, with the outside pressure so high that her body would burst into pieces of flesh strewn across barren death land where scavengers and eagles feast on the remnants of the departed.

A lift so easily executed, like a floating balloon, suddenly, she ricocheted as it was burst in its glory to drift as opposed to the others.
Pinned to the wall, tied in chains, bound by flashes of anger that nullify the heat in her body, letting her cool off to frost bitten skin as she conquered each spasm her mind put her body, through.

She landed on the floor, a thud, and she lay there on the cold floor, with her cheeks pressed into the dusty wood.
And like a crackling whip, she moaned, a sharp piercing scream, that tore open the drapes of putrid doom, of the night of ravens and howling curs.
And she bawled into the silence, screaming at its intensity, she had to run away from silence.

It was not long before her finale, that she performed the same piece, and her experience and practice gave her away, she tripped over her brimming skirt, ripping it with the edges of her sharp ruby anklet, tripping over the seams of her lucky dress, she fell gracefully onto the floor, her rubies scattered across the grand stage.
The silence now, as opposed to the silence during her performance, were so different she cringed.
The pain and blood that blinded her eyes making them moist, added to the tearing dryness in her ears.

The silence now, was of a disappointed audience, that were once in reverential fear of her grandeur and poise, when she danced fiercely.
And when she fell, a mighty fall.
They were quiet.


The floor board was as firm as it had been, loose but firm.
Yes, like her, talented but a failure.
Sustainability is like the fertility of a womb, it has value only till you can justify its existence.

To my art, to yours.

If only.

His palms had lines,it was like staring at railroad tracks, all of them, all over the place, when that is the only solace on a long train journey alone.
She held his hand, the journey ahead was long.
She stared at his paw like palms, they cupped her voluptuousness indeed, but its the lines that fascinated her the most, each etching a different path on the same ground.
He had little fingers, like babies, babies had nice toes, small and stout fingers that have girth, made to fit, in.

As the rail wagon pulled the rest of itself along the slope of the hill, she shut her eyes.
She still saw, in the darkness, closed eyes, meant ears, that will get up at the sound of anything that doesn't fit the reason why eyes were shut.
His palm was in hers, a tad bit sweaty, warming her with comfort.
Sweat, she loved rubbing against his, and then soaking up together in water, to prepare for another round.

She tricked herself into peeking just once more, at the slope of his nose, she could see his neck and his only undone first button, she wished she could undo them all, to look about at his broad shoulders and take a whiff of his manly hair.
She loved being his woman.

Her face was plain, or rather not as fancy as the women, who then, used to paint grandeur on their faces.
She wore a smile, that opened to show clean teeth, that hid her strength.
Her smile was called, Grace.

Strength, is a rather manly aspect, more or less attributed to the dominating counterparts.
But if beauty really is about, being hidden and elusive, you will know a beautiful woman by her strength.
He always told her she was strong.
He rubbed his palms into her hair and held her face, he gazed, and she saw right into her man, and quickly looked away at his soldier boots, he couldn't know she knew his secret.

The train rattled, somewhere the distant hum of night insects mating met the whistling smoke of the coal train, it would be dawn soon, her eyes were still shut tight, in guilt of opening them to take a look at him after he slept, his palm, in her hand.
But this guilt was an indulgence to take her mind off, the morning that followed.
It was the morning that would change the meaning she attributed to the warmth created by epinephrines during love made which met the cold harsh morning.
She would still be warm, and perspire for her man, but she would alone, in the hollow of the morning whistling breeze that would whip through her locks, bereft of his hands entangled in them, she, hoping and praying that he was safe.

They were traveling, all of them, she, fear, him and them together.

It was time for duty over priority.
It was time to pull out mittens to warm her hands.
To sit by the fireside, staring at the crackling wings of fire and the playful wind, and ignoring hunger pangs of the night because she cooked and ate only so he could feed her.
Curling up on the rocking chair, pretending to be asleep so that he would dump their dinner dish,they ate lots of times in one plate, and quickly gather her, he also cradled her to sleep.
It was suddenly damp, it smelt so, she was guilty of thinking about all of this, she was betraying them, their last sleep together for days to come.winter was indeed, bitter.
But she couldn't help but stare at his face, his eyes, were like marbles, they looked bigger and watery up close, they were embedded, like.
His lips were so perfectly shaped and had more lines across the length of them, pursed in a tiny straight line, curled at the ends.
He breathed with his nose, in a slow rhythm, concentrating too much on it would put her into the sweetest, sleep could offer.

It was early in the morning and the rhythm of his breaths were quicker, his body said, it was happy.
She knew he would wake up, soon.
And he'd know if he looked at her puffy eyes that she was crying.
So she'd sleep, now.
Afterall he would come back once winter was over, they could stealthily make love in the lake then.
And she needed him to go happy and not worry about her, so she licked his lips, and he held her waist tightly, and she thought she saw his eyes open.
But he slept well, and he always pulled her closer in the morning to stop her from trembling in the cold white light of morning.
She would miss that, too.
His eyes were shut.
She shut her's and swallowed a breath.

He turned her around and wet her dry lips.
He teased her skin and blew hot air into her ears, and curtly said, it was time, and before her heart could fall, a mighty fall, he blew hot air into her ears.
She huffed back at him and wanted to throw a tantrum for being disturbed during her nap.
But she saw his eyes staring at her making bratty faces in her satin night slip.
She quickly kissed him back and wore her shirt while he pulled up the suitcases.

The train hooted a victory siren as it pulled up at its destination.

A big board that read, Welcome Sarge, almost choked her tears, but she held them back.
She was to go back in the same train.
She had insisted on coming along and he had insisted she don't.
But if being difficult to let go had kept her back she wouldn't have spent those guilty moments, that accused love as the culprit.

He pulled his hand around her tighter and turned to look at her, and he pressed her thigh as he left.

She sat there, mesmerized.

She wished she had looked at his eyes, but she would cry, so she did not.
She loved seeing herself in his eyes.
His eyes, told stories of bloodshed and war, or raped pregnant women and dead children.
His eyes told her of secrets that they saw together with them closed, as he sucked her little musky sweet breath.
His eyes that twinkled as he suckled like a baby.
His eyes full of hope while she laid the plates for dinner
His eyes reeking of fear of not being able to return back to her when he left her alone as he fought for them all.
His eyes when he ate right through her, as she teased him in bed.
His eyes that spoke to her of the greatest feeling of elation as he saw her messy haired, stuck between two heavy cupboards trying to find a lost hair clip.


If only you'd known the woman she was, for him.

If only he'd return from war.

The train pulled over with a similar distant mourn, she stepped down onto the platform as she was circled by army suit clad officers who handed her, his suitcase, the one he had pulled out from under her legs as he left her in the railway coupe, wanting him as much when all she wanted to do was be a twelve year old brat and drag him back.
She opened the suitcase and smelt his clothes, it filled her head.
Her insides.
But it was displaced by a void.
Of never being able to smell him fresh.
Of never being filled by his girth.

If only he had taken along his memories.
If only he'd returned from war, with them.