Ode to siesta

Odes

Fatigue 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.

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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.

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.