haunting memories ooze from my pores
condensing in the heavy atmosphere.
wave after wave of ethereal static
flashes behind my eyes
pulling me above the serene rot
& the
percussive
drumming of the downpour outside.
spellbound in a dizzy trance
i stare into the reflective looking glass
waiting for the stranger
in the mirror to blink
first.
ii
sitting in a creaky rocking chair
watching black-&-white russian films
on a bulky, box, console television.
the fork pronged, bunny-ear antenna
and massive
protruding knobs and buttons
distract me, bathing in the salt-&-pepper static.
i peer to the left. on the rusted windowsill on the other side,
four empty glass bottles stand:
two green, two
clear – filling up
with the buckets of pouring rain. outside,
horses graze in the flooded marsh –
their soaked manes
falling flat against heavy necks
lasso tied, with a noose fixed to fence posts.
I pity yet envy their nylon-chained fate.
in the fireplace
embers of a coal fire flicker. ashy smoke
dances with the dust
suspended in the grey light
cast by the CRT TV screen. an aggressive glow, haunting.
iii
braving eden on margate street
reading…
writing…
painting…
moving and existing
through tinted layers.
six shillings a week for the meek, begging
to eat anointed fruit & man-made vegetables. swept up
in a tornado of unaccustomed genius
i sit singing. my blues bleeding into latin grooves
moving me through the dissonance
of frowning echoes.
iv
[front page]
crisis after crisis,
screams the black ink.
fuck it.
another hundred-and-eighty dead.
bombed for attending school –
but the other news said brown girls
don’t even get to choose.
someone’s lying,
or, more likely,
I’ve lost my mind.
> 2nd page
I don’t know who is worse….
Noem, or Noam ¿¿¿
Zhuangzi ~ am i a man who dreamt he was a butterfly,
or a butterfly now dreaming he is a man
