Ode to teenagers

Odes

To 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.

On bigshots

Rants

I think my friends in Chania, will be able to relate to this letter. In fact, the whole world has had the privilege of dealing with the worst kind of mankind: the bigshot.

Dear Mr Important,

You stride in and take a seat all up in my face with your fancy shoes and your nervous smile. You are agitated, though you are selling me the spirit of I-know-it-all. You start to mouth your $5-dollar words with the hope that I can’t decipher what you’re saying, but hey, I’ve spotted your grammar mistakes too mister, and don’t get me started on your idioms.

Your “it’s not me, it’s you” mentality is truly charming. Sure, blame it on the new kid while you polish your new status car and jingle your car keys before me, because God forbid I mistake that for change in your pockets! You only deal with big fat bills, after all. Or your American Express. A credit card or what I like to call fake money, bigshot.

So stop playing with what’s not there and focus on the big picture. Have a look in the mirror and look at your sorry self staring back at you pathetically. Ask yourself where along the line you forgot what it’s like to be a person with a three-dimensional personality. But hey, who am I kidding? You’re living your dream of being a prick and screwing everyone over: you jab and you kick at me and everyone you know, smirking in your fancy suit like the big idiot you are.

Funny, how a few 2-cent words will do to paint a picture of you, mister. How does it feel to be so worthless now?

Your truly,

plainbananas xx

Ode to sockets

Odes

Unobtrusively 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.

On summer

Rants

Hello summer,

We’ve been waiting for you. We’ve quantified you to the certainty of 30 degrees Celsius and we monitor the weather forecast like hungry wolves. Clouds tomorrow? Saharan dust? Let that not come in the way of your arrival, we beg. But the tell-tale sign arrives overnight, and we don’t even need to check our thermometers to confirm your entrance. Suddenly, hair frizzes up, furniture is coated with a thick film of moisture and we are scooped up in a dense cloud of opaqueness. Humidity heralds your arrival. And instead of a warm welcome, we’re thinking, how could we forget about what you do to us every year?

We get carried away with romantic notions of the Ss: sun, salty sea, seashells, sand. As we slap on our sunscreen with SPF 1,000 under the scorching sun, we soon realize that it’s about time we bought our own beach umbrella because there’s very little hope we’ll ever manage to get the few sunbeds that offer it as option. As we enter the water, we yelp silently, trying to look good as we enter a liquid version of our freezer. Of course it’s refreshing, we fib. “Look at me, I’m diving in, ha ha,” and our heart comes to an abrupt halt before resuming again when we break the surface. “God that felt good!” we say through clenched teeth. Around us, a few hundred others do the same, and we try to ignore the persistent question, as we hit a warm spot while we’re swimming. It’s the currents, we convince ourselves, though we know as we eye the crowd that it’s plain human nature. Oh yes, gross, summer, gross.

Then come plans for traveling and discovering and getting away from worries and people (though the latter, few of us would admit). We make grand plans for escape, and monitor prices closely before booking on the day when unexpectedly, prices rise, dammit. We buy travel guides and optimistically keep them on the coffee table, hoping that we’ll pick them up before the trip. We make our budget so that we never keep it, and come back with empty pockets and ticket stubs that we’re not sure whether to keep as souvenirs or throw out. As for our peace of mind? No room for that, surely, with the stress of seeing all the sights, avoiding all the touristy places and getting our value for money. Going back to work no longer seems like a bad idea, actually.

And when we start to take at least three showers a day, we remember why it is that you stink summer. We are gullible people, we like to live life in postcards that say “Wish you were here!” or go to work dancing to summer beats, sipping on mojitos. But when you arrive, you bring with you the unbearable heat, those long long days, that need filling. So we venture out to coffeeshops more, we go out at nights, because we wear denial on our sleeves, and by the end of it, we come out of August broke and in despair. We wait for the first rain eagerly, and monitor thermometers for temperature fluctuations. We are people of routine and we work in this cycle.

For now, in early June, all I have to say is “Welcome back.” By the end of it, we’ll hate you, that’s a promise.

plain bananas x

Ode to Muffin

Odes

In 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

Odes

A 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.