Horribly Us

it is the sound of us falling,
an intense dissonance punctuating the wind,
falling through an impossible column of mirrors,
each distortion magnifying our own,
horrifying us, horribly us,
it is the sound of us falling
upwards like inverted rain,
reflections screaming as we laugh,
phantasms chortling as we weep,
the sky breaking into puddles
one for us, one for them,
one for them, one for us,
it is the sound of us falling
blinded by the warp of our truth,
not knowing where
it will end,
not knowing where
we will end,
terrifying us, terribly us,
reflections chortling
as we weep.

Without Knowing Why

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The Interview

I want to tell you about me,
about the sour smell of penury ,
about loving but not telling,
about fear, about being a woman,
about things not in my file,
but you know all that without even shaking my hand,
my lowered eyes, my dress, my hesitant gait,
my accented hello, what gave me away,
the unease flickers like a second iris in your cold eye,
pulls quickly at your limp palm, holds back that unborn smile,
you cross your arms across your pinstriped suit
and I wonder which me your first word will break,
I see patterns on the carpet,
and rearrange my bones, my genes,
my tongue, my breasts,
align my birth to your contempt,
but I needn’t have worried
you had already swept me away,
my identity hovered briefly on a dust pan,
before the paisley motifs on the floor
became my shroud,
my muffled breath had not enough left
to ask which me you wanted to bury first.

Grey Time Blues

the early monsoon licks morsels of heat
off the brick verandah
as the last of summer
settles at the bottom of chipped teacups,
breathless with a gasp of wilting jasmine,
we read the dregs for signs of tomorrow,
how much will we take further,
rucksacks filled with spent days
getting heavier on our backs in the tepid rain,
how much will we leave to be washed away,
lost in the gurgling storm drain,
grey clouds rumble over
the roads we walked.
it is time.

Plastic Cups of Laughter

it is the sound of inanities being poured
into plastic cups of laughter
that finally saws through bones,
otherwise I wouldn’t trust someone
who slipped in under cover of night,
his dark side as ill-concealed as his glib persuasion,
but sometimes you have to lay out
all the broken pieces of shell and let him
sew them back with silver tacks,
let him fill a crucible of purple stars with
empty promises,
let him read to you from books never written
about things possibility has never dreamt of,
after all, I will talk about it in the morning
say I watched the moon dressed like Sisyphus
play an ivory ukeleke till dawn
and hear the pause of incomprehension
quickly smothered by chords of contrived mirth
chewing loudly through yet another refurbished armour.