You nest in my hair quietly
An adornment of silver and gold.
And today I chose you especially
To dress my sunny imperfections
In your thoughtless sparkle.
But the wind begged for a dance
Tossed you irreverently in arms
That ached to reach you
In a heartbeat you were swept off your metallic hook
Dancing to the rhythm of the swooshing waves.
I searched for your trail along the beach
But you had stolen away,
To lead an independent life
Without me.
Your partner mourns in sorrow
Waits for your mundane replacement
Silently.
Odes
Ode to siesta
OdesFatigue creeps up on me
like a hungry bitch after lunchtime
looking for scraps of dreams
and pillow feathers to cling on.
She invites me to her bed,
warm and soft,
and gently kisses my eyelids
to a lingering state of limbo.
I let myself go between fragments
of whatifs and havetos
until I lose control.
It’s quite the fiesta,
if you know what I mean.
Ode to muscles
OdesI am asking for definition,
Let my body hate me
with every bounce, even more.
On the tips of my toes
— on the verge of collapse —
I breathe out CO2,
bend my body to an illegible question mark,
stretch my back like a paralyzed cat.
My belly dances, the music beats
like a hammer on my muscles.
Contracting, detracting, contracting,
retracting. The image of my body
glares from the mirror.
The aching begins,
a better version of me,
sooner than requested,
should be with you shortly.
Ode to wii
OdesFirst there was me,
three-dimensional and quirky,
stumbling onto to misspelled words with joy
ravenously dining on question marks and what ifs.
Then there was mii,
decked in hot pink attitude,
a competitive beast roaring for a challenge.
My sweet side parting might fool
the casual observer, easily
I slip in and out of personas
and I am me,
and then mii
and we are both fun to be with.
Charmingly playful,
we indulge in petty forgiveness
and persevere onto the next level
before time runs out.
Ode to circuses
OdesThe savagery of fear
caged behind bars for exhibition,
laughing men cry out in cheers
for a round of applause, they pray
for a snicker or two-cent appreciation.
Vast canopies of entertainment of days begone
randomly make appearances in the mundane.
It’s a circus, we say
a play of the absurd,
an ode to all things stupid,
a staged production of no essence.
It’s entertainment these days:
slapstick on your plate,
served cold and rotten.
A meal we digest well, it seems.
Ode to teenagers
OdesTo misunderstood teenagers everywhere: It gets better. Wait for it.
This is for you:
Back to those zit-infested mornings
where your face was like pizza,
or the ugly side of the moon
shining on a class full of strangers
who cannot understand what you are
going through. Loveless
eyes scanning the area desperately
for lips to hang from, and words to decipher.
Back to days where insignificance
is of such great significance,
where the high is the low,
if you want to fit in
with the in-crowd of moaners.
Katy Perry reminds us well
of those hot days in summer with lovewords
pasted in online chatrooms.
It was the dialogue of the era.
A constant buzzing chatter, meaningless
communication. This was.
Ode to glue
OdesIn a a plastic container
dizziness sealed in a membrane,
invites curious fingertips
to a mayhem of stickiness.
The white snot of a substance
spreads itself thoroughly
across walls, across pages,
across infinite distances
that stand bridgeless and naked.
Despite your highs and my lows,
you patch things indiscriminately
and for this, I do love you,
dear clotted glue.
Disregarding resistance ,
you make everything stick
at the tip of my fingertips
with such eager convenience,
with such organized disorder.
A reassuring banality
to have you tingling my nostrils
with smokey long fingers
peddling for attention.
What is it you’re selling me,
my white sticky friend?
Ode to sockets
OdesUnobtrusively you stare
from the low end of walls;
hidden behind furniture,
you peek at the surroundings.
I turn you on with a simple click
and watch you slavishly work
to please me,
at a big price, nonetheless.
You keep a low profile
and store canals of underground cities
below the very floor.
Wired and electrified you wait
for the next power cut to illuminate
the power of the socket.
You muahaha as you watch
the panic, the disarray
of the darker version of life.
Ode to Muffin
OdesIn memory of our dearest dog, Muffin.
You woofed your way
into our plebeian hearts
and left a blondish trail
wherever your nose led you.
Mr Carrot had it in for you
for biting his head off;
Mr Ant was afraid
after you shut him up.
And now, you lay hushed
below trees that you played with;
and house corners wait patiently,
– in futile –
for your bouncing company.
I cling onto your long sigh of goodbye,
your soft exit.
No flowers for dead muffins, no remembrances.
Doggy sticks would do you just fine.
You always liked to plead and whine for them,
and we loved it.
And we loved you.
And we do.
Ode to Fever
OdesA bloody Danube is on fire
below my skin, I burn
and wrap my monkey fingers
around my shoulders.
I dream of numbers in decimal
places reserved for critics
that speak in shivers. Shaking
and nodding my head of metal
I fiercely light my own creations
of dazzling echoes of inspiration
I am a writer
a writer I am, a poet
a poet I am a playwright
Right, No wait, I know I know
I am creative!
I wake.
Oh it’s just a spell.
N.B. I really do have fever and this took a lot of effort to type. But the inspiration stayed with me for a blink of a second longer and I had to get it on a paper of sorts. Enjoy it.