I am such an incredibly short-tempered person I find it hard to believe I haven’t gotten into some real trouble yet. People yell and blow up for many reasons but mostly it’s because they’re angry. In my case, anger is often secondary; a result of something else.
I miss you. And it angers me that you are not here right now so I end up taking it out on who else but the person whom I miss? I don’t know why I react this way sometimes. Strange, isn’t it?
Focaccia or baguette?
The gentle breaths of summertime herbs.
A breakfast memory, warm as sunbathed feet.
The smell of a broad-chested mammy’s olive-oiled hair
Old dresses with full floral sleeves.
Flat as a pale-moon face under the frozen water over a pine box.
In Italy may you find the dough that comforts you fair.
The proud sword that never bends,
Stands across the arms of strict motherly ma’ams.
Thin as the bridge of your professeur’s Pince-nez,
Yet so very versatile in various companionships
Such as butter, garlic, and rosemary picked fresh.
In France may you find love in sharing toasted crisps.
I HATE YOU
At the very worst we shall have our favourite biscuits and watch the last of light together.
The road less travelled is a place
Where sunlight happens rarely;
When the moon is a wedge of fromage bleu.
Not exactly blue per se,
Perhaps mouldy and slightly sour.
Maybe blue like a shriveled face,
Or like a soldier’s dying lips.
Not the sky, not the weather for kites.
The stories less told is a library
Of my secret heartaches.
My proud mistakes; but I share with
The one and only worthy I.
A lone column tall enough to sprain your neck
Trying to find the end but you look wrongly
For it ends right beside your self.
Small yet very black. A spot, a dot, immortal.
The song less sung; a mighty strange tune.About hatred that you love, about love that you hate.
But you sell to the world only either of the two
For the un-strange know no areas of grey.
Suited men in office-grade ties; they sell
To you: A screwdriver for your head perhaps?
“Thank you very much but my head needs none,
For it is my past that needs some fixing, though first I must find.”
The people less noticed are the ones that live in my regrets.
I painted them a peculiar shade of chameleon,(Hoping that they would become
Part of Aunt Lily’s
Or perhaps just another side of a circle.
But stories about singing on midnight roads
Haunt me at moonrise. The ones that I damn
And so determinedly loathe, I once lived for,After All.
Something whole also has a hole in it.
I wasNew and shiny, a favourite toy
To hang on your wall like
A taxidermist’s (headless) deer.
Now suddenly, so honestly true
But true to the webs of your intestines,
A changed weather is the result
Of my wretched witchery.
My explanations no more (or less)
Than a lame error in a to-fix manual
Made possible by a lazy worker.
My excuses so well thought-outAnd executed because I would love
To damage my favourite weighing machine.
I am a woman, brain gone wild with mushrooms
To poison my lover’s delicate rug (or so you say).
Now I am the cause of your skin allergies.
You itch when I sneeze,
Get bitten by the cold when I shiver.
My fur falls and horns wither like a shriveled branch.
Headless dear of yours left waiting to be fetched off
To the dog kennels to obtain rabies.
And you still do not understand what you have done.
BULLSEYE, you say.But you do not know that sometimes your eyes see shit.BULLSHIT.I am just another one of your dartboards.