Thursday, 4 February 2010
Sunday, 28 June 2009
I remember it as clearly as if it were yesterday. I must have been 8 or 9 years old. My parents had recently gotten cable TV installed in our home and it had become a part of my daily routine, after coming home from school, to eat lunch while watching whatever I found interesting on the telly. This day was no different. I was surfing channels while chewing my food and I came across MTV. A video had just ended and another was about to begin. I waited hoping they would play some song I liked (I was a big Beatles fan already and I liked a bunch of other bands of that era thanks to my dad, but they hardly ever played any old songs). The video began curiously. A shot of a window in some dilapidated building, sounds of the city in the background. Suddenly, a blue ball bursts out of the window and as it bounces in slow motion on a puddle, you realise it’s a globe. A muffled sound in the background says, “1, 2, 3...” and then the beat appears with a bang! The bass sounds lays down the groove and the voices in the background are saying “You wanna get up and jam”. The camera rushes through garbage, ghettos, industrial wasteland, abandoned factories and then suddenly you’re running up a staircase of some old ramshackle building. There are quick shots of kids, their faces obscured in the shadow looking defiantly at you. And there he is silhouetted by windows behind him and he’s dancing. He’s moving like I had never seen anyone move before; he’s moving in a way I had never thought possible. The music is not like anything I had ever heard before. I was experiencing something completely new. Before I knew it, my plate was set aside, its contents unfinished and ignored and I was on my feet, silent staring at the screen transfixed and in utter awe. Michael Jordan appeared out of nowhere and this thin runt of a man was jumping around trying to get the ball off him and failing miserably. And in the next scene, the runt was trying to teach him how to dance and Jordan was failing miserably. What I was witnessing was the two biggest MJs of my childhood Jamming with each other. This was the first time I saw Michael Jackson, and I was hooked. Even as I watch the video now, I get goose pimples. Here was a man saying something simple, simply. “Let’s Jam!” he said, “It ain’t too much for me!” But his music spoke to your body like none other. Whenever I heard an MJ song, I needed to get up on my feet instinctively; you cannot listen to his songs without being moved in some way. After this first encounter, I had to hear all his songs, all his albums. My TV would be on just so that I could catch the next MJ video. I remember watching the video Scream completely mesmerised. Shot in complete black and white with minimalist techniques and the animal scream literally coursing through me and coming out of my mouth so loud, my mother would come running to see if I was all right, only to see me jumping around like the weird people on TV. I remember how Thriller scared the bejeezus out of me in the first werewolf sequence and how I laughed when the zombies danced. I remember watching the intensely, brilliantly choreographed Bad, with MJ’s signature “Ch’mmmon!” scream and the deriding taunts to prove your manhood in Beat It. I remember how I passionately expounded my knowledge about burning issues behind songs like Black or White, Heal the World, The Earth Song and how my friends told me they already knew what the songs were about and that they weren’t dumb so I could shut up now. I remember watching the video of In the Closet and drooling at Naomi Campbell and then quickly changing the channel when I heard my parents’ footsteps in the corridor. I remember walking on the pavement at night imagining the tiles lighting up with my footsteps like they did for MJ in Billie Jean. I remember our whole class singing They Don’t Really Care About Us, banging our tables in unison, our collective percussive strength making the walls shake. I remember how I made every song about me and my life. And then in a few years, MJ became lame, a freak, a laughing stock for everyone. The girls moved on to the boy bands and the guys moved on to “cooler” stuff, like Guns’n’Roses. I never liked either. But, I moved on too; more classic rock, alternative, metal, grunge, electronic, jazz, blues etc. But every now and then I would still go back to MJ. No one seemed to understand him anymore... the passion in his voice, the angry growl, the hiccup, the whoo! No complications with him, no abstractions, he just told you how he felt and nobody else did it like him. When the allegations of paedophilia arose, I found it a little hard to believe, and I still can’t be sure about the truth of the claim, but I always felt that his relationship with children was completely misinterpreted. In our society, when a man spends too much time with children, is too nice to them, too friendly, he is instantly looked upon with suspicion. Much like Reverend Flynn in Doubt. This exchange from the film sums it for me:
Flynn: Like you care about your class! You love them, don’t you?
Sister James: Yes.
Flynn: And that’s natural. How else would you relate to children? That I can look at your face and know your philosophy. It’s kindness.
Sister James: I don’t know. I mean, of course.
Flynn: There are people who go after your humanity, Sister, that tell you the light in your heart is a weakness. Don’t believe it. It’s an old tactic of cruel people to kill kindness in the name of virtue. There’s nothing wrong with love.
We can, of course, choose to believe what we wish. It’s easier for me to believe this, and he was acquitted. Which doesn’t really prove it of course, but nevertheless, I find the whole thing a little difficult to digest.
All I know is Michael Jackson was a huge talent. He choreographed his own steps, wrote, composed and produced his own songs, revolutionised music, reintroduced the video as an art form and a commercial vehicle and redefined youth culture. This thin, wispy, androgynous figure with a voice which perpetually stood on the border of puberty has spawned images (on his toes, doing the moonwalk, one hand on crotch the other outstretched, pointing to his left, holding the brim of his hat and leaning as if held up by a string) which are as iconic and instantly recognisable as Gandhi’s silhouette, or Einstein’s frizzy hair or Hitler’s toothbrush moustache or the half-bitten apple or the Nike swoosh. He was an enormous part of my childhood and the more I listen to him now, the more I realise why he has become such a cultural icon. It was because he sang about stuff everyone cared about in a language everyone could understand. He sang and danced with a force of a tornado and we were swept away. We couldn’t help but sing and dance along. He was the last of the great musical iconoclasts, the last true star of pop music, the last legend. His death was a jarring reminder to me of childhood’s end. I will miss you MJ. Rest in peace.
Wednesday, 17 June 2009
I can’t wait for the day
When you will awaken
And squint in the cold paleness of the sun
To behold the light that has faded
Behind dark turbid clouds
And smell the flowers
That have died in your arms.
You will rise and falter
And your quivering legs
Will be your pillars
Which will balance your torso
Against the marauding winds
Which will blow the dead sands
Into small tornadoes swirling
At your toes.
You will see us
And know what we have done
And you will fight back.
Like two lions in the dust, we will clash
Until you stand victorious
And we lie slain and unmoving
In the fragile grey unyielding soil
Bloodless, breathless and bereft of life.
I can’t wait for that day
For the sun will shine once more
Because you asked him to
And flowers will burst from the barren earth
Because you willed them to.
Light will flood the firmament
A breath will burst out of the inanimate
Clad in the million splendid colours of life.
The dawn will come, resplendent and brilliant
Pregnant with new stories
Told in the language of fluttering wings,
Whistling winds and swelling river water.
This will be your world
Your theatre of vitality
Where the stage will be set for your presence
And your baton will command the music of dreams
A rich orchestral prelude set to the rhythm of time
Rising, rising in a rapturous overture
Until every vacuum is filled, every void engulfed,
Every hollow overwhelmed by the glory of your song.
The seas will part and stand muted in awe of your magnificence
And then you will dance...
You will dance...
in your arms my life
seems like a distant world
it is obscured by the boundaries of your elbows
bent over the nape of my neck
drawing me closer to your eyes
as the song of my breath
falls rhythmically on your breast
with the rise and fall of your back
against the crest of my conjoined fingers
the cadence of your whispers shot from your mouth
echo in the caverns of my ears
that ache for your voice
as your hold on me tightens
we form shapes and structures with our bodies
construct a tower of two in silence
muscles contort to grasp flesh and bone
soft static charges flow through our nerves
our veins illuminated with electricity
we are lightning, we are fire, we are vespers
we are a tower, we are a bridge, we are a lighthouse
in the sullen sphere of this closeted space
you and i collide and a world is born
Sunday, 26 August 2007
"Whatever happened to the sweet-sounding birds of yore?" he wondered aloud. "The ones that chirped and sang such bittersweet harmonies. Such gentle and graceful creatures they were. They seem to have disappeared altogether. The skies are filled with winged monstrosities now, blowhorning things out of their way in fits of flight-rage. Birds nowadays are perennially angry and violent."
Sol, who had been sitting beside the reverend in a solemn reverie, now looked up at the birds in silence. Angus had been painting the horizon quietly and with intense concentration. He now kept his easel aside and uttered knowingly, "It is a bio-evolutionary reaction, sir. We learnt this in our BASTARDISE classes."
"What did you say?" asked the reverend, turning the shade of a particularly ripe nectarine.
"Biological Adaptation, Structural Transition And Responsive Development In Species' Evolution. The name's too long, so we use the acronym. Why? Is there something wrong in shortening nomenclature? Am I being disrespectful in some way?"
"Er... no. No. But somehow, it didn't sound right. No matter... you may continue."
"Well, we were taught that as the wheel of time turns, certain things must change. There are changes occuring everywhere and in everything. The direction of the wind, the magnetic polarisation of the earth, the seasons and even nature itself is constantly changing. Baron Chickenfeed's Theory is that 'all change occurs for the better as, is proved in eventuality', though, there are a large number of people who are completely opposed to this line of thought. They are called the Pessymists (in ancient Caldubine, the word 'pessym' approximately amounts to fault, but it also means finding dearth in something or seeking a situation which creates the need for an excuse). Now, most living creatures need to be physically prepared for nature. In other words, a creature must be able to survive on earth, and survive comfortably. It must be able to cope with all the natural changes that are thrown at it. Thus, every specie is slowly but surely changing, mutating and adapting to nature so that it can survive and reproduce. All creatures through long bio-evolutionary processes discard what is useless and superfluous in their body and develop certain traits that they require."
"So what, pray tell, does the BA...... er... this subject or theory have to do with birds squawking their lungs out?"
"Well, one only has to look at the history of birds to realise that their constant squawking is a BITCh."
"Look here, young man! I realise that I am a fairly level-headed and liberal sort of priest, but even I cannot permit you to use such obscene language in the presence of your brother. He is just a child!"
"But sir, we were taught about BITChes at University."
"What kind of a University teaches its student such things?"
Angus raised his head to the morning sky with pride, pointed his finger heavenwards and striking an imperious pose, declared, "The best."
"Well in my time, no university taught such things and children uttering such words were given a sound thrashing."
Angus looked puzzledly at Sol. Sol smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He picked up a stone and threw it as far as he could, then got up and dusted his trousers off and said, "Perhaps, in your day, no one knew what a BITCh was. Its quite an important concept, sir, too fundamentally important to science, for us to ignore. It is a basic concept in the study of life."
The master seemed to hesitate. "Um... what is a... er... what does that word mean?"
"A BITCh, sir, is a Biologically Inherited Trait or Characteristic." Sol replied.
"Ahem... Oh... I see."
"It is a concept of far-reaching importance in our understanding of life itself," Angus continued. "You see whatever we are today, physically, emotionally, culturally, socially and morally, is the result of a long string of changes that occured due to our adaptation to the world and our constant struggle to survive. It is believed that man once had hair all over his body and even a fifth finger!"
"Yes, I've heard that. Hah! That's a laughable idea."
"Nonetheless, some historians are sure that these things did exist, and that it was what we call BASTARDISE-ation that changed our bodies to what they are now."
"That's tripe! All creatures were created by the Creator. And they were created as they are now."
"But, sir," offered Sol, "supposing there was a creator and he did create everything, isn't there a chance he could have made mistakes? And having realised these mistakes, maybe he wanted to change the things he created... as a sort of... correction or... repair."
"Nonsense!" bellowed the reverend. "The Creator is perfect, and so are his creations! He's never made a mistake in his life and never will!"
"But, sir," argued Angus, "if you'll let me tell you the history of birds, you'll realise that this theory does make a lot of sense."
"Bah! Go on..."
"Birds were singular creatures, often extremely intelligent, yet very often, extremely stupid. Though most could fly, some were flightless. Some were soft, gentle and vulnerable and drank only the juices and nectar which they obtained from flowers, inflicting the least amount of damage possible, whereas some would bite, strike, hunt, maim and kill prey in order to devour them in a most barbarous and ravenous fashion. However, over the years, birds evolved and became slightly civilised. They became thinking creatures, somewhat like man, but not at the same level. They developed a primitive system of morals. They saw that due to the hunter-prey situation, most non-preying birds were dying out, so the weaker birds formed a sort of union and revolted against the stronger ones. The weaker birds decided, that each of them will constantly keep a vigil for the preying birds. If they saw a preying bird they would instantly scream, warning the others of approaching danger. This has led to a number of problems. Apart from the incessant noise that results from this, there's also the fact that most birds don't have very sharp eyes. So one of them may think that there is a preying bird lurking around nearby and scream, thus causing much mass hysteria, when really, it may have been nothing but a distant zeppelin, floating around, minding its own business. Mass paranoia has engulfed the world of birds. There voices have subsequently evolved into shrill screams so that they can be heard even at a distance. There were some birds which had such weak hearts that a sudden loud sound would actually kill them. Those birds have now become extinct, for obvious reasons. So here we have an excellent illustration of BASTARDISE-ation."
"This is all poppycock!" The reverend was livid and fuming with rage. His eyes were bloodshot and were about to burst out, and his fists were clenched so tightly that they were turning purple. "I cannot stand this blasphemy!"
"But, sir," Angus continued, calmly, "It really is quite a beautiful concept. It makes you think about life and humanity in a different perspective. It tells you that we are all equal and that we are all brothers in a way."
"Yes," said Sol, joyfully, "The same BASTARD exists in each and very one of us. We are all products of BASTARDISE-ation, and therefore, we are all one."
"Stop this, I tell you!"
"Why," Angus said, "just the thought of all of us sharing the sames BITChes gives me goose pimples! Every single BITCh we have is something we share with all of humanity. Isn't it wonderful?"
"Stop! I order you to stop!" The reverend clamped his hands over his ears and seemed as though he were in physical agony. But, Angus and Sol were so immersed in the topic that they couldn't even hear him.
"It is spectacular!" screamed Sol. "Just imagine how deep this theory really goes! It defines so many things. Everything we have in our bodies is a BITCh! Everything we have now is a result of BITChes our ancestors had! Our progeny and their progeny and all our successors will have new and improved BITChes! Our BITChes unify us all! Our BITChes are our link to the past and our step into the future! They are our inheritence and define our place in the world! They will be our legacy once we are gone. Everything that we are or will be shall be defined by BITChes. BITChes are our identity! In fact, going strictly by the definition, every non-artificial thing given to us by our ancestors and our parents, is a BITCh! Our parents gave us our very lives! Therefore..."
Both Angus and Sol shouted gleefully in unison, "Life is a BITCh!"
"This is unbelievable!" growled the reverend. "They teach children heresy in school! It is the reign of the destroyer! The evil one is upon us and he will destroy everything that is sacred and holy!"
The reverend's head now looked like an unusually large tomato and it was throbbing like a plate of disturbed jello. He tore fistfulls of hair as he shrieked and saliva blubbered out of his mouth. He looked like a raving lunatic.
"I will not have this!" he spluttered. "This has to end! I'm going to burn the University down! I'm going to destroy the books and kill the teachers that put such evil ideas in your head! Oh Lord! Save us! Apocalypse is on us. You boys will never go to that University again! It is the seat of all evil! It teaches you that the Creator made mistakes? That is a lie! That is blasphemy!"
"But, sir," Sol said timidly, "isn't it possible that...?"
"NO! It isn't! The lord, our Creator makes no mistakes! He is the nameless ideal! He can do no wrong! You hear me?"
"In that case, sir" said Angus, calmly (though, a touch annoyed), "How do you explain what you call the devil or the destroyer? He tries to destroy and corrupt everything that the creator has made, by your own admission. Wouldn't you say creating him was a bit of a boo-boo on the creator's part? Or is he just sadistic and wants to destroy everything and make everyone suffer for the simple joy of it?"
"YOU SHUT UP, BOY!" hollered the reverend. "YOU KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT! THE LORD CREATOR IS LISTENING TO EVERY WORD YOU'RE SAYING AND HE'S JUDGING YOU. OH I SHUDDER TO THINK OF THE HORRIBLE DEATHS THAT AWAIT YOU! YOUR FATE IS SEALED! YOU WILL BURN IN THE DEEPEST BOWELS OF HELL! MARK MY WORD, BOTH OF YOU ARE HEADED FOR PERDITION! BOTH OF YOU! AND YOU DESERVE IT! YOU DESERVE IT ALL!"
Suddenly, there were numerous sparks all over the reverend's body and he, inexplicably, burst into flames. He uttered a horrific scream, and in an instant, he disappeared.
There was a silent pause for a moment and then everything went back to normal. The birds started squawking again, the wind started blowing again, the trees started rustling again. Everything was back as it had been. It was as if nothing had happened.
Only Sol and Angus remained rooted to where they had been standing. They stared at the spot where the reverend had been sitting. There was no trace of him now. Not even a speck of ash.
"What was that?" asked Sol, after a long silence.
"I've heard of this," Angus replied. "Master Wu Li Zentao had told me about this. It is called Spontaneous Combustion. No one has ever been able to explain it."
"Really? Master Wu Li actually axplained it to you?"
"No. He just randomly said 'Spontaneous Combustion' one day and I went to the library and read about it."
"What shall we do now?" asked Sol.
"We shall go back and pretend this never happened." replied Angus.
As they walked away, Sol asked, "But what do you think happened? There has to be some rationale behind this. There has to be. Right?"
"Well," Angus replied, "I think the creator realised he had made a mistake. So he erased it."
Saturday, 25 August 2007
And here, at this very moment, in fact, there is a huge gathering of young men and women. It is the first day of the academic year and the new batch of students are being welcomed by senior students and teachers alike. Hundreds of students have filled the hall and there is scarcely any place to move. We see a multitude of faces talking to each other, some laughing, smiling, some worried, some scared, some annoyed, angry. It is quite a gathering here. Let us close in on two young men. Though eavesdropping is indeed a bad habit, we shall listen in to what they are saying, simply because if we were to stand around doing nothing, our journey would end right here. So here we see two young men, both of similar height and build. One has dark hair combed back neatly, a pair of sharp and alert eyes, which seem to be looking for something or someone, a sharp nose and thin lips. He walks purposefully, seemingly preoccupied and ostensibly quite hassled. The other has quite a striking shock of white hair, peculiar for his age. He has softer features, is quite fair and has a pair of bright blue eyes and a thin white goatee on his chin. He seems just the opposite of his companion. He walks with a swagger, perhaps hardly aware that he is walking, and has a constant smile stuck on his face. The white-haired boy speaks first:
"An' whar is yer bonny bruthar, Angus meladdy?"
"If I knew where he was, I wouldn't be searching for him, would I? This blasted crowd isn't letting me move and that boy's nowhere to be seen."
"Ye means, ye cannae find yer own bruthar? Ha! Angus, soul o'mine, yer such a loose-buttoned ol' toot, ah tells ye."
"Oh keep quiet, O'Leander. My brother is about average height and has just about no distinguishing features at all. He's not the type who'd stand out in a crowd, you know."
"Well, tell us wha' 'e looks like, then. Ah shall busy me baiby blues to locate yer darlin' li'l cubling."
"I just told you. He's about average height and build. He has fair hair, brownish I'd say. He has deep brown eyes. His nose is like mine. And you'd better keep your eyes open because you almost knocked that poor child over, O'Leander you stupid simian!"
O'Leander turns to the girl in question and makes a gesture of apology.
"Ah'm sorry, luv. Didn't mean tae push ye like tha'. Nae 'arm dun, eh? Nuthin' broken ah 'ope?"
The girl, a little disoriented, manages to smile and shake her head graciously.
"Good gurl. 's okay, she'll live. Let's move on."
"You really ought to look where you're going O'Leander. That girl was scared out of a year's growth back there."
"Fergit aboot tha'. Angus, ol' dear chummy, ah 'ave tae ask ye a qustion."
"Wha' does ye think o' this 'ere new Club summa the guys back in the 'ostel 'ave started, eh?"
"Do you mean the Requiem Club?"
"Yea, ah does mean the requiem club. Wha' does ye think. Ye fancy joinin' it?"
"It sounds interesting, if not a little a morbid."
"Yea, bu' wha' is life, ah says, if i' ain't go' a li'l morbidity, a li'l macabreness, a li'l moroseness, eh?"
"Hmmm... I'll have to think about it."
"Oh cam aun, Angus fella-mehearty! It'll be murderous fun! An' thar'll be loads o' pretty li'l ninotchkas joinin' too."
"Ah! So that's why you want so badly to join, eh? Well, I have my doubts about any 'pretty little ninotchkas' joining, but the club itself sounds like an interesting idea. I'm pretty sure its not going to be too easy for us to join, though. There will be some sort of criteria for membership. They won't just let anyone in, you know? I'm sure there will be interviews or initiations or the like."
"Nae, me pal, heart o' me hearts, there ain't. None fer us, at least. Ye see, yesterday, this boy comes up tae me an' asks me whether ah'm interested in joinin' this 'ere Requiem Club. S' ah says to 'im, ah says 'sounds good bu' ah'll have tae ask Angus, me buddy, an' ye'd bluddy well wait until ah've asked 'im'. S' then, this blighter, 'e asks me, 'oo is this 'ere Angus? An' ah says, 'Ye don't ken Angus? Angus Telum? The luvliest person on this 'ere planet, an' a great pal o' mine, too. You can rest assured, tha' if 'e ain't joinin' then I ain't joinin', either.' S' this fella is just waitin' fer me word, an' ah'm waitin' fer yers, see?"
"A likely story, O'Leander. I bet it was the other way around."
"S' wha'? S' wha' if i' was? Oh, awright! I' wis Stamford 'oo came tae me an' wis askin' fer ye. An' ah says ah don't rightly ken yer whereaboots, bu' ah could readily pass on a message. S' 'e says tae me tha' ah should ask ye whether ye are interested in joinin' the club. An' ah asks 'im if ah could join too. An' he looks hesitant, an' ah says tha' ye wouldn't join if ah couldn't. S' 'e says awright, then. S' wha' does ye say. Shall ah give 'im the nod, eh?"
"Very shrewd, O'Leander."
"Yea or nae. Jus' give me the word."
"Listen O'Leander, don't pester me. I'm a little preoccupied right now. I'm in no postion to make any decisions. Why don't you decide and do what you think is right?"
"Awright, then. Ah decide tha' we shall join. Ye an' ah are goin' tae be members an' when an' if we find yer bruthar, we shall ask 'im too. Jolly good gumdrops, then!"
"Whatever you say, O'Leander."
And saying this, Angus walks away from O'Leander weaving his way through the crowd. O'Leander stays rooted to the spot, not bothering to move and shouts out to Angus: "S' ah'll tell 'im?"
A boy pushes his way through the crowd and comes to O'Leander and says, "Yes?"
O'Leander looks at the boy, puzzledly.
"Ah beg yer pardon?"
"You just called me."
"Nae, ah didnae call ye."
"But, you just called my name."
"Ah, don't even knae yer bally name, child."
"Oh, all right. Sorry then."
And he turns to leave.
"Nae, wait a minnit! Come back."
The boy retraces his steps.
"Wha's yer name, boy?"
"Sol. Sol Telum."
"Well, bustlin' babelfish! Ye is Angus's bruthar, ain't ye? Yer bruthar is scourin' the whole bluddy 'all lookin' fer ye, an' 'ere ye is. Crikey! You two 'ave the same nose! Thar was sumthin' in yer face looked like good ol' Angus. Why ah called ye back. Wha' a bloomin' coincidence! Wha' a luvly twist o' fate, eh? Ah'm so winnied ah'm afraid ah'll bust ou' o' me shirt!"
"Do you know Angus, then?"
"Ken 'im? 'e is practically me bruthar. Tha' makes us bruthars too, righ'? C'm'ere, bruthar mehearty, soul o' mine."
And he crushes Sol in a tight bear hug. For a moment Sol can't breathe. Then when O'Leander let's him go, he takes a deep breath, and the blood that has rushed to his head starts to disperse. O'Leander stretches out a hand to him.
"Me naim's O'Leander. Wight Rhett O'Leander."
Sol shakes the outstretched hand and immediately realises his grave mistake as it closes in on his, in a crunching grasp, so that he can feel each and every bone in his hand breaking simultaneously. After a few seconds of vigorous shaking, O'Leander lets his hand go and says, "Listen, we'd better find yer bruthar. 'e's 'assled as burnin' 'ell tryin' tae locate ye. 'e wen' this way. Follow me."
He proceeds to push everyone out of his way, much to their annoyance, laughing and saying, "Ah get i'! Ah says, 'S' ah'll tell 'im?' an' ye 'eard me say 'Sol Telum'! Ha! Ha! Ha! This is 'ilarious! Ah says, 'S' ah'll tell 'im' an' 'e thinks ah says 'is name! S' ah'll tell 'im an' Sol Telum! S' ah'll tell 'im an' Sol Telum! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!"
And Sol follows him giving apologetic looks to everyone.
"S' Sol, soul o' mine, does ye fancy joinin' a real secret, mysterious, morbid, macabre, morose club?"
Wednesday, 6 June 2007
the momentary chill
shivers through lithe digits
the perils of gravity and lightness
lost as light is submerged in vaporous breaths
velveteen shadows ride through the
rippled reflections of white moonlight
filtered through the filigreed branches
there is movement in the void
twinkling like the stars that you can't see
your scent fills their lungs
your image fills their eyes
tonight they have come after