Sunday, September 23, 2007
Mother
Her children are kept in pale white iceboxes,
their pink and nude shells like popsicles for a warm summer day.
The cupboards grin, a discreet shroud for smiling sickles and happy hammers that make her craftsmanship almost artistic.
The faucet cries knowing it’s an accomplice to homicide, pearls swimming in red.
Blood is indeed thicker than water.
She peels them, like an artichoke which only the heart is edible.
Each delicate human petal is plucked off – a classic game of love me not.
They love her, she – not.
Silk strands of mahogany strewn on crumpled pink chiffon, their eyes cold with frozen love for the warm woman.
Unpicks God’s hem, the children are almost threadless;
dismantled dolls.
She’s their God now.
Deoxygenated effervescence that fuels this hydrological symphony.
Graceful water babies steaming in drowning steel pots, their permanent backstrokes and flotsam fantasies amuse her.
Afloat for nine months, they fed off her amnion for suspension.
She’s merely paying them back for playing with her placenta.
Gruesome grievous gestation.
The pots chatter, their wafting breaths hug her heaving bosoms that expire today.
After all, there isn’t much of a difference.
They both begin with the same letter.
Mother of all murderers.
maybe one day i'll be famous and forget all the hurt i've seen.
Prelims was a laugh. Flunk.
I'm lost and have lost.
I miss school, takes my mind off things, of reality just for a few hours.
caught a razor butterfly at - 1:42 PM |
