The Mother.

Lets write novellas on the illusion, we were free once.
Lets build epics around the hope, we will be free soon.

Fingers entwined, one tiny another big. Two women bound.
Hands held tight, one wrinkled another young. Two women strengthened.

Wiping the floor, I have spoken tales of exuberance and grandeur.
Like Prometheus I toiled endlessly, bliss they said motherhood was.

Take this fire, my woman, my daughter. Strangle your heart with it.
It comes down from mothers and sisters. From women and grandmothers.

This fire lives in us all, it doesn't spread very violently. Nor set men on fire.
It strengthens the grip. It fuels your being, inhales life into a dry vagina.

Its heat does not conquer, its light doesn't overwhelm. It transcends color.
And the fire rides when you ride a man, rises when you cut your hair.

It doesn't die when you mother fifteen children, feed men with sticks.
Nor does it die when they encroach your body and skin you alive.

This fire is tempting. It drives them mad and they want to consume.
But it burns them alive, kills you too. But devours intruders.

Strong and violent as hell fire and calm as your mother's idols. It answers
When you ask where to go. But it floods out sometimes, isolating you.

My women, this burns in your hands and breasts. I burn in your soul
And your stare at the enemy. I shelter attacks and bring enamoring power in your eyes.


The fire, your fire, my fire. Has descended from legacy of nurturers.
My hands, my bosom, its milk. Has been sucked by greatest mortals.


I am the one, which weaker sisters ask to run away from. For I lynch their kind.
I am alive in your blood, which speaks every month. And wails.

The void which gives birth and sets the world in motion, I am that womb.
I am that axis on which you hang clothes and spin the stars to dust.

Its me they kill. Me, they murder when they come and ask for your hand.
And take you away like a pet. I weep when they ask you and you do.

I am the one you barter for love sometimes. And once you are happy in the illusion
They make sure I stay put in chains and locks. You wed happily and cook.

I give you the choice to breathe and read. I give you the chance to walk over me.
It pleases me when you choose either, but I hope you only grew stronger.

I am, the mother, the daughter, the friend, the sister, the teacher, the goddess.
I am what makes you unhappy in life. I make you choose death sometimes.

The fire of generations burns in me. And I make love to each of you.
Instilling that passion and spark. Burn brighter my lovers. You are me.

Melancholia.

Death. I am not too obsessed with this word, but I am always pondering about it. I think I died for a few days, the thirteen days when I didn't write a single word, like I lynched my soul on a pole of gold. But I saw someone I love die today. Not witnessed exactly, but she died and i remember being in her arms and loved. Few tears fell down instantly in shock and sudden grief, after that it was alright. Old people die, that's what they do.

I feel I have this illness. A kind of sickness, which makes me think of my departure the moment I enter. The city I live in and love, there are moments when I imagine myself leaving those streets and roads forever, to death or a better opportunity. Or when I am in the arms of a man, I see myself loving him whole heartedly and then in that very instant see myself drying up when he's gone. Or when I am sitting on my own and thinking of all those who love me and I have loved, I think of how few more decades and we'll be separated by death. And today when I saw my grandmother pass away, all I could feel was the sheer damage and devastation my mother's death would bring to me. I thought of that, and wailed.

There must be something soothing and pleasing in this melancholia that I keep pushing myself back and forth into it. Or maybe I keep preparing myself for the reality of the thought that alone is what everyone will ultimately be. I might not drink or smoke alone, might not even live alone, but we do die alone. And that is not sad, it is liberating and peaceful, how long will we cling on to people for happiness.

I started detesting alcohol. But now I want to feel it in my mouth and tongue, burning my throat and firing down my system with a chill so strong that it burns. I want its heat to be visible on my face and pull down my eyes, and then spread them wide in sudden rush of lust. Then feel unfulfilled and soothe with further doses, because helplessness never heals, bandage it good enough and you might just hide it.

Let's...

Spread out open, arms full of warm blood
Tempting and calling out, for a touch
A grip, a souvenir or a blade.
But it receives none. So wrap 'em round
Your chest. Hold tight. Good night.

Legs wide apart, fleshed and soft
Slightly plump but inviting. Pleading for an invasion,
A finger, a sheet or many intruders.
But it receives none. So cross them together
Sit by the window. Stare out. Its raining.

Laying bare open, chest with full breasts.
Tender and plump, waiting for a fondle,
A kiss, a mouth or a cruel clench
But it recieves none. So put your hair on them
Sit with gentle pride. Woman you are. Complete on its own.

This mind, scribbled and disturbed. High on potential
Dreams and visions, needing a catalyst
A crack, a wail or a blunderbuss
All's too late. So lets sit by the light.
Wait till it can. Light a cigarette. Set the heart on play.