No one knows freedom like a slave.
Things laid out carefully for the most important night of the year;
a private place hanging from the edge of an island,
a few heads that can talk and laugh,
a menu with options.
to fill up the holes between conversation
and light up the crystals lost in eyes.
it was the same.
In the morning between rocks, seashells, open bottles and sand
there were people broken
by the quiet horror of
This human thing,
it heals, it hurts:
it is the thing that man’s god hates the most.
This human thing
is a thing of shame and miles and miles of sunshine.
This human thing,
is a thing that sang,
and at pictures of beautiful flats;
played Pokemon Go,
shopped for Christmas,
while cities of ants burnt
with their secret mines of gold.
and bewilderingly apart
till humans things were dug open to find
that burns children, women and men
shooting air bombs.
The prophets are late,
Five forty am:
I watched you watch her
try to scrape the last chance of last night
before it faded fast into the sunlight.
– with an old man in a clean sarong
and a shirt ironed to a crispness
-that ratted a wife back home.
Although while scanning her shape through the skirt,
he licked his lips,
he was the type who kept his nose too clean
to go behind the Keells supermarket with her kind;
Besides it was getting too bright to hide.
She came back to you defeated.
They say you both would do anything
for a shot of heroin,
and that it was all your doing.
Is that true?
Did you ever love her?
Before the hell holes, strangers’ invasion and teeth rot,
was she ever beautiful?
I hear her curse you, shrilling the night
but in the morning she is still around
in the thick of your shit fight.
What is she holding on to in you?
– is it something sad and sentimental like
the music trapped between the dust on a forgotten wedding bouquet?
– or is it something logical like
the last thread of convention?
– or something dignified like
’till death do us part’?
– or is it just reason lost in the wind
somewhere in the mundane plains of habit?
as Colombo lay dry sleeping,
and hungover cars were leaving
with leftovers of Saturday night and Pillawoos,
I saw you again.
Standing in a daze of junk
with one palm outstretched to the ocean,
it looked as if you were blessing
the great, big sea of salty tears.
Was that for her?
It’s alright, catch your breath.
You’ve run so far, she can’t see your pain;
Your little friend- the prettier one
with scar-less skin
and a face that peaked too soon to kill
a human heart.
Babe, have you ever heard of the tale
of a little, ugly duckling that lived by a lake?
I’ve seen it living, breathing by a convent wall,
at a dancing class, a high school fair, and at last
growing between two little girls in the seaside South.
You know babe,
legends are made from truth,
flesh and clay.
How do you think
I know your story
Don’t worry little duck, you’ll do fine,
because pain teaches delicate things.
But, her…she’ll die a slow death in her heart.
In warped time and place
I’ve seen her married to an idea’s face and boredom,
because she never knew beauty’s labour.
I see you rolling in sand wearing only a swim bottom.
I envy your bare brown freedom
because my chest is too old to be brazenly sunburnt
and to be removed of the sex that has grown all over.
Wait little babe
they’ll soon crown you too, with chains.
I see you chase her across the beach- your other little friend,
the prettier one with lighter skin
and better hung baby meat.
She’d let you chase her but never touch,
and dropping your hands on knees you stopped,
There was boundary on the sand –
the dusky part that the ocean wet
and the crisp white half that it could never get.
She was on the other side-
the one that stayed untouched by salt tears.
She laughed and laughed because…
You know babe,
she will break your heart one day.
It’ll either be,
that boy who’ll look at her right through you,
or the world that breaks you with its blind love young beauts.
She’ll take down your stars.
Babe, it’s alright,
let your knees crash to the ground.
But, let me tell you a secret;
a little byway to no pain.
Next time you run up to her
let her eyes shine for a moment
but, turn around,
throw your chest in the Southern wind
to run laughing.
Babe, don’t even think about turning.
Wickedness is just a game that we are playing.