strip tease

and this one was amusing.

as each layer,
each tired layer,
melted,
peeled,
or slipped off,
the reflections
on the aging mirror
had stories to tell
and lullabies to sing
to ears that were too well-versed
in human conversation

walls

These are our stories. Stories that we don’t talk about. Stories that are easily ignored. Easier ignored. These are the stories about the times when every other story is done with. Manners left aside, friendships forgotten, favours misunderstood. Behind closed doors we are all different people. Behind closed doors we all know more… or think we do. Behind closed doors we do more with this knowledge that we scream out is so worthless in the ‘real world’. Here we know that this smile is not a smile, this tear not a tear, this scream….well…. These words are just as empty as we are. We know about blood and tears and sweat and pain. We know that it was not from fingernails that we got scratch marks on us. We know the sharp objects from the dangerous ones. We know how to use the pointy edge of a paper cutter to make someone else bleed. We can make our own meanings and our own outcomes. We are the only heroes. Our carefully constructed images crumble as we stand in front of the speckled mirror and undress. On the other side of the mirror, the stories are different. And too far away to hear clearly. It only takes a minute to put that image to sleep and wander off into the distance with ourselves. We can give this indifference a new name. Call it something else and mellow its jagged edges. We float into the slumber of a sleeping child, oblivious to the shadows sharing the bed with us.

Story Tellers

There are no photographs
out of which he
smiles

no garlanded frames
or charcoal sketches

moist eyes and choked whispers
utter his name
anxiously
careful not to uncover
those dusty memories
too quickly
and make it all too real

all over again

Cradle

As his innocent eyes dimmed
to darkness
the last he saw
was the torn leather seats
of that old car

(A gilded prince
of years too short
and a story
that went
on and on
long after he had fallen

asleep)

Faded Memory

Did the rains slash down
on the windshields
of that old car
like it does today?

Was that the last he heard?
And saw?

Along with the muffled sobs
of his helpless mother
and the constant hum
in his young head
heavy

with uninvited sleep.

daydream

the mind lingers
on these sordid images:

fingers, legs, lips
intertwined,
the heaving closeness
of hungry bodies

let the eyes bleed
and smudge
these vile flashes
of honest hallucinations

the tongue can go
the silent way
(once again)
biting back moans of
pregnant fear.

Morning Walk

come, let’s run wild
amongst the barren trees
and grainy wind

rip our eyes out
and gag our mouths

but the stench….
oh the Stench!
of bare bodies and soiled feet
and lively flowers in lifeless hands