Dead Cat and Screaming Dog

Scream. Piercing. Tore me. Then silence. Guts on the motorway. Red. So red. Soft. Sight. Moved me. Swallowed. But how much can you swallow? Breathe. Without choking. Breathe. Really breathe. Disturbed. Forget grammar. Listen. The scream. Was piercing. It tore me. Nobody moved. Nobody listened. And what of my grandmothers face? And what of her frozen eyes and gaping mouth? And what of her soul and where it is now? And what of all those walking souls? And me. A walking soul? I smell him. I smell him now. I caught his scent on the breeze last night. He speaks of death. He hasn’t seen it. He hasn’t smelt it. It possesses him. Sometimes? All the time? He fears that he is next. He visits me in all my dreams. Do our souls meet when we are asleep?

Visions of Wings and Feathers

And what of love? It’s smeared all over your walkways. Your streets. Your polluted air is thick with its heavy weight, with the scent of millions, with the sweat of lover’s palms as each searches ravenously for the other. Away from your prying eyes. Lost inside. Missing part. Never find. I have been humiliated by you. By what I feel for the fruit of your loins. With his old eyes. I have borne the words with dignity and pride. But I know now that they are eating away inside. It’s slow. Delayed reaction? They get heavier. Their meaning reaches further. The implications. They get deeper. I am not healing. I am not dealing. I am denying on the outside. Too afraid to look in. To discover the damage. The wreckage. That you so simply caused. So easily. So casually. Destruction. I looked numb. I felt numb. I feel him. I see him. He is fragile. Like an angel. I see through his layers. His colours. I can almost touch them, that’s how real they are to me. You have poisoned our auras. As they merged now shall they sever. Because I do not heal. Because I do not deal. Because I KNOW we are helpless in the face of such power. Possession. Nine tenths. Where is your tenth claw resting? In my back? Pray, let me turn around. Who is he? To me? Heaven knows. He is my missing rib. Not I his. Baby you’re so fragile. You’re so fucking fragile. It’s a great show. A great show you put on. But I can see through you, I never had so much vision.

Warning...Part 2

Rancid taste. Questions, questions..never any answers. Never any replies. Only judgements passed and accepted. Never defended, only defeated. I feel hunted. I feel like a black man on Ku Klux Klan territory. On the run, but never escaping, always dreading the final moment of capture, in a nervous state of bare survival. And what is my crime? And who are you to judge and accuse? And what will become of me? What will become of my warm and sunlit dream? Will I have to succumb to your poisonous ways; will I have to sacrifice it on your blood-drenched altar just to be accepted by you? Does acceptance lie in the amalgamation of my existence into your filthy society and in the adoption of attitudes, rules and ideas that I despise as my own? Will I become ostracised? Will I have to leave? Will I be able to fight? Will I be able to maintain the noble and moral conduct (as I see fit) until the end? When is the end? Where is the end? Why is there always an end?

Warning, Blood and Guts in the Morning

I was warned, time and again, in a zillion different ways, and I heeded in my own shade, but did I really understand what it was they were warning me about? A million different ways, a million different opinions and a million different faces, all saying, all telling me the same thing. Be careful. Of what? It never really registered until now. Be careful of people. Be careful of their eyes, and their judgements, however uninformed they are, their opinions are what count. If you want to survive that is. If you want to be able to live as any other normal human being does without harm, not physical harm, just harm, harm, harm, then you must follow the rules. They are not written. You cannot go and buy a manual. You cannot go and study them in the library. They are passed down from one generation to the next. To the chosen few. They are like a sacred text that is only ever discussed in cavernous intimacy while the world sleeps. I digress, surely I am making excuses, surely I was warned enough times, surely I had enough lessons. Did I just choose to ignore what I had been given of advice? Was my optimistic nature just too downright ignorant to understand? To realise, to register, do I always have to take the hard way and learn the bitter lesson for myself?

Transitional Nature

The transition from one culture to another is fraut with difficulties. Although one may know the rules of the game, practicing those rules is another issue entirely. For instance, remember when you were in science class? The physics teacher verbally explained the correct steps that needed to be taken in order to conduct the experiment successfully without causing any personal harm. She painstakingly drew a diagram on the whiteboard for you, just to make sure that everything was clear. But what usually happened when you actually came to follow the instructions? Didn’t you always manage to burn your fingers on the Bunsen Burner or spill some deadly concoction on your best friend’s lab coat? Living here has proven to be a repeat of that careless scenario. On a larger scale. With more personal harm inflicted on an individual than could ever be expected, especially by a naive person of western origins like yours truly.