This is a re-telling of a traumatic experience
If you are faint of heart, please stop here
I don’t want to hurt you
I lost a pizza to ants. She was a medium, topped with corn and chicken. I left her a little too late, out by the gate. By the time I got to her, she was covered in black. The harmless kind of ants, which is ironic because, they never hurt anyone but me. The whole bunch of them gathered around my toasted bread. I even got a discount on her. Wasted coupon, wasted dreams. Into the darkness I threw her, because I knew she was better off left for dead. I’m going to stop referring to the pizza as ‘her’. I think it’s getting weird, and I’m remembering scenes from the American Pie. So I left it there, for the ants and rats to consume to their satisfaction. With a heavy heart, I went back inside, and ate a home-cooked meal. Why? There is no why. There’s only butts. Big, round white butts.
Every night, when I lock the front door, I feel a stream of cold air on my toes, from the gap beneath the door. As my crippling OCD makes repeated requests to check and re-check the locks, I hear people in the hallway revel in conversation. Lucky are those who enjoy partaking in human-to-human interactions, for man is after all, a social animal. Here I am, writing to myself. Every line, a little gayer than the last. Is it a poem? Is it prose? What is prose, anyway? I mean really, what the fuck is it?
Remember that light?
Yellow and black reflections dancing in the eye
Remember that awe and wonder? Remember that smile?
Who was that stranger? Where did they go?
Maybe they’re here. Maybe we don’t know.
Is the vacuum growing? Are we losing the climb?
Maybe a quest is the answer, not through space, but through time
To find an unbroken spirit, a mirror
Say hello, stranger
Wave to yourself
Spend some time there
You and your imagination
Rekindle that flame
A song for winter
I did not have to iron clothes
Winter, I miss you already
I am not afraid of Pneumonia
but I am, of unemployment
I know not where you come from
They say it’s about revolution
I think you are sadness, frozen
Not in time, but in emotion
Now, as this poem gets gayer by the line
I would just like to say
I am a beast with feathers
My wings, are dirty
So I tread on uphill
As I feel the thrust
Of a penis, in my butt
I’m heading to the clouds
I hope for beauty, but eyes are shut
Engine noise is carefully curated music
A glow on my face is happiness from the Sun
Things need not make sense as the lines get longer
Because this is a random-thought-beam, aimed at a canvas
The moon is smiling
Pause for 4 seconds
In the event of an unexpected disaster, the moon will still shine
Those two are unrelated
I don’t like to call it a heaven
I like to call it the unknown
And in the unknown, there is a familiar face
A moon, who is smiling
Clouds are forming in the distance
A fearful silence approaches
Long lost memories fade into the mist
A jackfruit has fallen into my fist
Oh fuck, it hurts
Today is the last day of Puja holidays. I wrote a poem to express my feelings.
There is darkness at the end of the tunnel
A crying angel, wearing boxing gloves
It’s a never ending pipe of sadness
I tried to steer the pipe towards the light
I do not know, is that fire, or is that white?
I peer through the pipe, hoping to hear happiness
All I see, is the grey hair of the manager
I pulled at it, hoping to cause hurt
I pushed a heated branding iron
I heard a squeal
I smiled, as I left to get the chainsaw