By Lunminthang Khaute
Is it just me or does the world seem more hospitable when it rains dead corpses?
A bottle of kerosene I hold tight in my right hand and a cigarette lighter in my left,
The one I borrowed from the florist shop
Although one would argue it was theft.
The peaches in the kitchen sink I left for Charlie
And the red grapes beside the toaster for Willow
Are all rotten in the same water where they were cleansed,
But there's no harm in eating when you're hungry
Even if it's over my dead body
I dare you to love me softly, I'm still listening to Lizzie;
Don't tell me that I have no right to end a story I did not start.
Your embroideries of images that remind you of me lay lifeless on soft timber,
Staring into the open skylight and screaming for a lost entity beyond the cosmos
But their voices unheard.
Perhaps the deities are busy nurturing heaven's garden,
Or maybe they're still eating breakfast;
They've forgotten about the iron fetter gripping my ankle,
With its chains shaped like that of Nile, clinging onto me like grim death.
Is it just me or does the world seem brighter in the dead of night?
When the stars align at eventide and faith looks at fate in the eye
And her teardrops crystallize to form a vague reflection of the other,
Unable to sympathize with the former.
Crestfallen and dismayed,
I'm moving on with what's left of us but still sitting still in broad November twilight
Counting the number of letters I've written but never once received
It's an odd, no it's an even;
But does it even matter anyhow?
I've already packed my books and candles,
My ink pot, a few white shirts and a bag of old jeans,
and a spare belt to tie around my neck,
In case I let my emotions fall loosely out of my throat
like I've always done before,
But my eyes reveal everything don't they?
Everything I do not intend to show you or Charlie or Willow
Please don't leave me misunderstood, Belle
I'm not a portal of illusion feeding delusion
I'm just a poet to myself, a madman to a few other madmen
And perhaps a failure in the eyes of my genesis;
A stuck up, dismissive and hollow mortal living amongst disdain
A rhetorical commitment of greed and pretence,
And perhaps even satirical if I wasn't so disillusioned.