Amazing drawings by AuAu, including the chaotic siblings, Tom and Lauren, from my collaborative novel, Identify. I might end up writing a scene for the art.
think, with all the indentations in the death bed of poetry
The following information below are profiles about the main characters in the ongoing novel collaboration, “Identify.”
is it pseudopsychosis? ask me when the moon is stripped to her feet
For the masquerade is a ball, and life it’s dance floor.
A single kiss from the sensual & poisonous lips of yours Makes me bleed red diamonds, while I bloom into the scene so blue
Then I went to this historic cafe, a fine edifice jutting into the sidewalks, with prominent pillars of azure blue and pink, and amber coloured glass panes and leaf motifs on primal walls, a few hundred yards away from city enceinte. Two hundred years might have passed since its birth, and once it was the château of the gentry and later converted to a garrison and then a cafe. Old honchos gave way to new ones. The cafe was thronged by silk-stockings and the au courant and mixed populace lending it cosmopolitan aureole… It was still morning and the sun was young and the guests went to and fro, some getting down from limousines and others leaving the quarter. Here in this swank bistro on that December morning, I met the old gentleman, quiet and doddery in demeanour. He might have been in his late sixties, with hair partly white and partly cinereous. He sat in the bistro for an hour or more languishing and now and then, fiddling the little cigarette lighter he kept in his palm. He carried a Dobermann of rare Isabella fawn hue with him. He grinned at the watchman and attempted to enter decisively because it was where pooches were permitted entry. At that point, the gatekeeper objected and so did the administrator and there was a tussle between the portcullis and the counter. The supervisor argued that a significant number of visitors were kids underneath the age ten and the Dobermann might scare them. And the supervisor’s words prevailed. This was the moment he chose to sit opposite me.
Through years of comments, sneers, good meaning, she developed a sense of people’s true selves. Sticks and stones may break her bones, but words gnawed. She was sitting on a train one night. A man was sitting opposite, smiling at her – incessantly. He wore purple crocodile cowboy boots and a Stetson – conspicuous. The alcohol had exceeded its peak and left a sludge of sleepiness, as the train rocked, her head dropped. Every jolt woke her, ahead and unmistakable, the man never ceasing to show those pearly whites, a crocodile smile. The end of the line – ‘howdy ma’am’ a Texas twang as he helped her to her feet.
I’m just a poor struggle-ing poet I know I’ve got it down below The trouble, gets caught on my intestine My metaphors get stuck and can’t show
Thousands of poems captured on those lonely nights but not a one could do when it’s just not you
The man prepares a large umbrella and scurries to the rear passenger door. He opens the protesting hinges to their limit, and waits dutifully by its side. Several seconds pass and, with surprise, he bursts into apologies again. “Oh, ma’am, I’m sorry, ma’am,” he flusters, “…old habits, and all… I’m afraid I’ll not be able to use the rain napper, please pardon the inconvenience, ma’am.” He placed the umbrella on top of the jalopy and leaned with a grunt through the back door.
Inside, lying across the back seat, an attractive woman of 38 struggling with her bonds, attempts to squirm through the metal and glass at her back.
You lit up my world,
Now you shadow it.
For the present, memory is rattled by the sorrel sobs that do not quell from my bleeding lips And I, now enclosed, in the flowers and darkened furnaces that blemished on my pale skin, I do not know, nor do I remember, but it is through the ashes in my weary palms, On the ghoul traces of wind that says to me, ensconced, “Slicked through the tears of the dark clouds with wraith-like fires upon a weak soul, The wind shall hear no name...
Chains and Cages weigh us down,
Yet deep inside, we hold the key.
Look around, and you will see,
The endless state of mystery.
Like soil with collective stems of a crooked rock
That brushed your fingers, all dampened,
That a mother would tell you to wash up,
Hurry on; but as I’ve remembered,
An olden, washed face, only ashen in lengths,
As I’ve forgotten time in between tonight,
And the best the day had hummed
The song of the copious endorphin springs