Amaranthine; a blog of original poetry

 He sleeps on the couch Shirtless, With his belly hanging loose Like a huge whale washed ashore; Breathing, But not really alive. He sleeps on the couch With the blanket kicked to a corner, Television light hitting his face, An empty bag of chips That crinkle as he rolls around. The waves that put him on the shore Come back to touch him Gently. The waves that put him on the shore Try to take him away. Yet only the sand below is really taken away. He still sleeps on the couch Shirtless, With his belly hanging loose Like a huge whale washed ashore...

 I climb grey stairs As the windows spit out yellow light. The neon goes off and on, Off and on. I climb grey stairs On the way home As drunk men lean on one another and fall, As mad women run the streets. I climb grey stairs And get tired. The neon goes off and on, Off and on. Look at the freedom these men and women have. And look at me; Having built an image too perfect to ever be free. And I climb grey stairs to my home And I wish to be like them. Well, I've been wishing for a long time. And the wishing alone often satisfies.

 A cup of morning tea With a few floating leaves, With steam escaping all around them, Hitting my face, Making me breathe and lift my nose; Making the sun shine brighter As if I’m in an advertisement Promoting the tea. A cup of morning tea; Fresh like a scented candle, Almost golden... Almost gold. A cup of morning tea With a few floating leaves And one floating flower; Little... Spinning like a parachute when I blow in... Hitting the cup walls, Yet Bouncing back... Unable to escape, Forever being boiled alive But never boiled to death Within this hell the drinker calls his friend, His morning alarm, His heaven...

 Rain, Loneliness, Chinese lamps hanging outside restaurants; The winds cools my face To remind me further of my tears, The cherry trees shake Gently. Rain, Loneliness; Only loneliness. Because she isn’t there today. The windows creak, And a new bottle of wine breaks on the stone floor, Slowly. The lamps swing And grey clouds converge. She's isn’t there And the nights have become like seat belts on aeroplanes, That help to locate the bodies After a crash. The nights have become Nothing more than the darkness it presents. Rain, Loneliness, Chinese lamps hanging outside restaurants; The winds cools my face To remind me further of my tears, The cherry trees shake Gently.

 Lovers..... In front of hissing waves  Caressing the sand, Putting it to sleep. Lovers... Trembling eyes and  Foreheads touching, Then noses, Then lips...slowly... The light shines through the gap, Blinding us, For it is a very private moment In a very public place. Lovers.... The boy catches the wind in his shirt, And the girl in her hair Flying wild Like a burned dove flying out of a burning forest, Still alive, Still beautiful.... Lovers.... Two rocks in the same stream, Connected by the water. Lovers...

 I see cameras and reels and red boxes Placed against the brown wall, With a single shaft of yellow light Which highlights the dust Flying like fairies... As mythical..  As the cameras, reels and red boxes themselves; All stuff of legend That have become useless overtime. I see cameras and reels and red boxes Placed against the brown wall. And a mouse runs through and over, Kicking back a lens That rotates And moves to the edge And stays there, Ready to fall down and break... Falling down..  Breaking.. Thrusting into someone's foot...

 I know it rains outside But I don’t see children run around. I know it rains outside But I don’t see couples kiss in the rain. We've caged ourselves behind our windows And tried to convince ourselves That the cold that comes through it is enough. But we know it isn’t. We know There is a certain wildness we are missing. We know it. The mud calls for more feet And naughty little hands. The water is prepared to wash away our tears. But we stay shut Behind our windows, As if we're above it all, As if the rain should come to us.

 He bites a cigarette, And I see the smoke gather into a heart; A heart that expands and expands Until it breaks, Dissipating into mere embers That stay lighted on the grass For a brief moment; Like a quiver, A pulse, A soul locked in its own cage. He bites a cigarette, And the smoke talks What he cannot say directly; His lovers, His pain, His pain caused by his lovers.... He bites a cigarette, And it writes on his lips His own darkness... His eyes black... And without soul, Going away Like embers on the grass; Glowing brightly Once more....

 My childhood was a skyscraper  Buried in mist, With only the blinking light on the spire Still visible; Scanning the landscape like a floating head, Looking for more lights... But all these is are clouds tripping on each And falling on each other, Growing thicker and thicker. My childhood was a skyscraper  Buried in mist, With only the blinking light on the spire Still visible. But this is a building with green windows, With people inside, With a twisted spine  Holding a pose like a nimble dancer  Full of youthfulness; Passionate tears in her eyes. None of this is seen, None of this is even tried to be felt Under this forgetful mist. My childhood was a skyscraper  Buried in mist, With only the blinking light on the spire Still visible...

 The trees were placed on the building For oxygen, For shade, For a space to spit and drop cigarettes... The trees were placed on the building And now.. The building is on trees; Grown thick one day, Suddenly.. Like a mummy breaking out of its bandages, Roaring at a familiar world made unrecognizable... Stepping out of the cave, Cracking the ground all the way to the cliff In a single mighty step... Rising up; The back no more bend... Arms no longer tied down... Not weighed down by chains That don’t clank to call for help. The trees were placed on the building For oxygen, For shade, For a space to spit and drop cigarettes. And the trees did nothing but grow...

 A yellow bird sits on the standing plank of a fallen fence And watches the lake shine. It sings this song for someone. But for who? The men in the speedboat drown in the engine’s erring. And the wind has it's own music to play. A yellow bird sits on the standing plank of a fallen fence And sings. But for who? The water enjoys it And dances, Breaking the lines of light that have been there for long Like wrinkles on an old forehead. A yellow bird sits on the standing plank of a fallen fence And sings. But for who? Maybe it's for the water And maybe for me. “It's ready.” He said. The bird was on a stick Rotating above the fire. Now the flames sing too.

 There was bamboo at school, Written over by names of loved ones, Names of no longer loved ones, Hearts with arrows. There was bamboo at school, And I used to sit there alone sometimes Like the other boys and girls Who etched in Names of loved ones, Names of no longer loved ones, Hearts with arrows. There was bamboo at school, And some boys hid there to smoke cigarettes And etch the first profane thing that came to mind; Just words, Drawings of nudity, Or both. Look at the bamboo now and judge them And you'll always be wrong About where they are now. Life's chaotic And they were too. Maybe that's why they are where they are.

 Many black hands on the walls; A struggle To push the walls over And explore. The caged bird wants to fly And the kite in the tree Wants to wind to carry it away. Many black hands on the walls; A struggle To see what is on the other side. We keep pushing Until the dirt sticks to the walls completely And our palms bleed, And the walls will drip with bloody palm prints, Until the blood drips so much That they no longer look like palms. They'll inspect And find not even a single palm print. And they'll say we never tried.

 One day coldplay came on radio And lifted my roof. I could see the sky And faces I wanted to forget And flowers I could not smell in the clouds; Flashing lights, Gunshots, Dances with some woman I’very never met. Oh Coldplay! Oh Tchaikovsky! How do you know The pain of one man out of the hundreds of thousands. How do you know what I’d forgotten. How can you care more than all I’ve met. You have more life than most people Because you have a soul. And a soul in man is rarer than the scriptures say. And a soul in man is dead if it still exists anywhere. Oh Coldplay! Oh Tchaikovsky! How do you know The pain of one man out of the hundreds of thousands. One day coldplay came on radio And lifted my roof. But then it fell on my chest And crushed me to a pillow of tears.

 I see giant peaks clustered together, Like fingers of a beast Trapped under the earth for ages, Slowly rising... To grab the brim and pull itself out To see the very world that had buried him; The very world he should crush beneath his feet. He sees the fish  And thinks they're drowning, He sees the worms And wonder why they bury themselves in the earth. Will the fish ever walk? Will the worms ever be free... He grabs the brim and pulls himself out To see the very world that had buried him; The very world he should crush beneath his feet... And he chooses not to crush it... For one beast's prison is another beast's lair..

 I'm a man stuck within rusted gears Of this giant machine, Turning slowly... And the rusting slows down As my blood lubricates these metal teeth Open to air For ages. I'm a man stuck within rusted gears Of this giant machine... Drops of blood drips to the floor Like  water from a dirty pipe on the wall of a dirty building. And from those drops Arise blue butterflies; More and more of them, Encircling to cushion me... Getting crushed with me Under these gears; These nicked skulls and steam-breathing teeth... This one's on top.. That one's on top... Like some bloody waterwheel. I'm a man stuck within rusted gears Of this giant machine, Being squeezed to fit into the gap... Not able to fit into the gap.. Gone forever.

 I stretch my hand at the light And a baby holds one of my fingers. I stretch my hand at the light And feel seen... The mist catches light falling off branches, And makes itself seen Like a ghostly fire hugging the woods; Like the dust after a stampede, Like the shaking wheat That doesn’t allow the butterflies to rest on them. I stretch my hand at the light And a baby holds one of my fingers; The smile, The glowing eyes, The faint hair swaying Like the final smoke after an eruption... I stretch my hand at the light And feel seen... Touched... Smiled at. I stretch my hand at the darkness And nothing comes to hold it up. There is only a twitch; A penetrating wind that drains the last sparkle from my eyes.

 The sky is starless, But the billboards, Chinese lamps and neon Touch the puddle with fingers of artistry... Now quiet, Then quivering under shining black boots, A part of it sticking, And then letting go; Leaving a trail  that dulls and disappears; Leaving a trail That holds within the same twinkling life of the noisy night. The sky is starless, But the billboards, Chinese lamps and neon Touch the puddle with fingers of artistry... The city doesn’t die And so stays its waters here and there, Becoming whatever music the city wears.

  I touch a scaly bark and look up At the trees all shooting into the sky; Never seeming to end, Yet never meeting. I touch a scaly bark and look up At the trees all shooting into the sky. And I feel like I’m continuously falling down a hole With hanging lights on the walls; Dizzy, Spiralling... The lights finally meeting And glowing brighter and brighter Into a green ball that explodes into a stream of fireflies... And I... Still going down.... A leaf falls on my eye And there's darkness. Now I'm back on Earth, Watching the trees again.

 A slice of lemon on the brim Flowing down to the cocktail below, But not touching the surface, Waiting... The fly comes, And the wind chases it away. The lemon flows down And waits... The rain comes, And the wind blows  To push it away; Like a villain punched in the stomach, Falling back in slow motion... Into the ocean.. Hitting a rock and Bouncing back Slightly.. From a mattress With springs made of blood Which dissipate And won’t cushion another fall So smoothly that it kills. She comes in the rain With her polka umbrella And the cocktail and water has become one. Now she sees the olive inside Even before she drinks...

 Sunset, The golden water hugs the rocks And lets them go. Sunset, The golden water hitting the shore, Growing even more golden that very moment, Yet... Not leaving anything behind For the viewer. The waves come out to be adored; They tickle our feet And take away those shells we’d collected. The waves come out to be adored; But they give nothing back. Sunset, The golden water taking the colour out of everything else To glow... Sunset, The golden water hugs the rocks And lets them go.