head bobbing
wafting scent of shadows
flitting across laden skies
heavy with gold
bluebeard’s stashful
crackled dried
yet still fresh crimson
as scheherazade’s tears
slowly rise
weightless
smoke rings
burnt out memories
softly melting
dissipating
into clouds of ice
lies embedded
soul sunken
kneeling without a prayer
eyes dilated
aching stiffness
sunken cathedral
bleeding blossoms
fish dreaming
wandering dark blue silence
seeking
but not finding
run run run
circles concentric
dead alive
bluebeard’s ghost
scheherazade’s folly
full fathom five
—–
so bluebeard still seeks, hidden skeletons haphazardly thrown helter skelter tossed askew like scattered petals of yesterday’s news… perhaps these once were roses, perhaps nothing but whores, yet all possessing now the same echo of bluebeard’s footsteps, clattering across empty souls… and still, bluebeard goes, seeking fresh blood in the dark blue silence of the night…
still glistening
blackened moon
prayers forgotten
candles burning cold
bloodied soot rancid in the snow
whispers buried in silver threads
tears frozen inside an ocean
locked in grief
where she kneels in mute supplication
for he who goes awhoring
drinking putrid wine
from goblets of tarnished gold
intoxicated waste
upon stone altar
faun’s pleasure
lamb’s grief
no more songs to be sung again
sunken cathedral
narcissism runs in the creative soul… the cloak that enwraps the inner spirit… but what we DO with this narcissism makes the difference between inspiration and destruction… musicians, artists, writers… all creative narcissistic ppl… we’re drawn very often to our own reflections, and bits of it in broken shards of mirror…
a talented young friend made a remark abt how hot musicians are… i couldn’t resist throwing in a wet towel with a hello kitty face on it (bad bad girl i am)… but i meant it sincerely, as a wry gentle dig, not a bitchy bitter remark… becos i love musicians and artists – hey, i AM one myself… but one who has ‘been there done that’ in a myriad of ways, and not yet, if ever, back from it yet…
musicians are usually the ‘hottest’ among this group of ‘hotties’… and writers tend to fall easily for their musician counterparts… the artists? well, the visual sense is a direct one, and i hv found many a musician attracted to their visual twin… and so the merry-go-round of self worship turns… with the peripheral unsuspecting groupie thrown in and out of this swirling carnival of animals…
from the birth of the virtuoso in the 19th century to today, countless pple have worshipped these beautiful creatures (themselves included)… oh… the hair… the enigmatic smile… that strange mix of easy friendliness and suave unattainability… the animal magnetism… their special perspectives… that particular insouciance… i can go on and on…
as always the males hv it better with the groupies… no, these are not always the silly airheads, mind u… i know one musician who only beds intelligent groupies, and how such smart capable women can end up being toyed around with like bimbos on heat i really cannot understand… sad irony but very tried and true…
well, the female creative type does get her version of groupies too, but in general, women in the limelight in any area of life are usually viewed with jaundiced eyes…
so… groupies for the females?… uhmmm… adoring gay men who sometimes end up as great friends, young straight men – hey mom, i bedded a musician/ artist just for the thrill of it, but guess what, it didnt feel any different… other women and old folk who appreciate and admire creative talent… and at times, fellow creative ppl who hv walked a little further along the well beaten path…
read all about it in my upcoming book… yeah, direct from inside the furnace of creativity… u will see a few familiar spectres there – hot musicians, artists and writers all… but by the time it hits the shelves (becos of my crazy propensity to work on more than one thing at a time), perhaps u will not be surprised, for u may hv been there and back already… well, at least it may help bring a chuckle or two of deja vu?
that’s entertainment… and more… and there is really no need to warn abt the sordid side of creative minds, is there? we’re all grown ups here aren’t we? (or ARE WE?)… 
but all said and done… YES YES YES, musicians ARE hot (and artists too)…
then… so is fire… some burn hotter than others… but the hotter the fire, the more dangerous… yet, all the more beautiful… ah… the great dilemma… what will life be without fire?
2 years
u’ve been gone
today
leaving behind
grief at ur loss
foundations torn
all i had known
grown used to
destroyed
stripped to the bone
but today
ur legacy
finally made known
in the footsteps
of death
comes
new life
all of it’s own
unexpected
surprised
but so welcome
healing balm
how i miss u
but today
i see at last
love’s legacy
to market, to market
to buy a fat pig
home again, home again
she’s bitten off ur dick…
one hit of a button
one millisecond click
one tiny movement
detonates an old broken bridge…
once that fire’s started
no more turning back
but there was never any value
in a horse long dead…
so good bye little brother
fare thee well little boy
so sorry just cldn’t be
ur sick fantasy toy…
when a heart dies
it’s the final breath
love has no more power
no oppression left to wield
nameless bird
voiceless song
silence bereft
and the stillness echoes
louder than desolation’s scream
while yellow moon of wordless breath exhales
invisible grief
incomprehension
it wasnt my game… for me it was real… every word every nuance every colour every hue every sound and resonance… but it was just a game, just not my game… somehow it was my fault, how i dont kw, but i kw it was my fault… next time, i shd look behind me, not trust anyone…
hv a good laugh, little pierrot lunaire… go get a life… really… its just all a dream…
but no… it’s not my game… and nightmares are not dreams… so dear scheherazade, will u wake up in my dreams?
scheherazade realises at last… she has to say goodbye… ah yes, she had tried to leave, over and over and over again… but yet she turned back… hanging onto hope… that perhaps bluebeard wld open his eyes, if only for a moment, to see her pain…
but nay… it is time to lay down the burden she has been carrying for him all on her own… and leave this dark dungeon of oppression…
scheherazade must begin to live anew… and leave behind bluebeard’s sunken cathedral of pain…
scheherazade knows
only death can bring
resolution and rest
for this incessant pain
over and over and over
again and again and again
cruel words
acid rain
mocking laughter
taunting words
bluebeard’s castle
sunken cathedrale
scheherazade knows
hate has dignity
annoyance just shame
scheherazade must choose
for bluebeard will not
she was never worthy
even of this choice
scheherazade knows
yet is is so hard
but she must do it
to kill her dying heart
inspiration = breathing in
being there
touching
seeing
feeling ur aura
wrap around me
inflections in ur voice
talking abt things
that matter to u
hearing the rhythm
of ur wheezing
romance?
nay… u misunderstood
just my very unique way
of learning
thru u
thru things around me
thru beauty
being me
u said u’d help me
i tried to tell u how
but i guess
it’s too late now
u see, i learn
by osmosis
dreaming nightmares
dark knotted pain
swimming in flotsam
from yesterday’s rain
shadows thick
stroking the fog
soft silken skin
silver corded locks
deep blue hush
silent storm
images of u
irony forlorn
slow…
hush…
breathe…
believe…
stretch…
reach…
touch…
taste…
smell…
release…
heal…
no matter how
slow
half truth
is not truth
but gentle deception
carelessly tossed
insidious destruction
innocence lost
nay, twas not i
who had a hidden agenda….
scheherazade will leave
dark dungeons begone
bloodstained walls
innocence dead forlorn
bluebeard’s castle
two years of shame
invisible spectre
without a name
adieu, my love, she whispers
caressing bluebeard’s head
but he lies in the arms of another
sweet deception’s bed
scheherazade shall leave
broken dreams
time to release
silent scream
dada…
forgive me
fragile mind now demented
lost in silent wails of torment
blood stained innocence
naivety sullied
mocked derided hope
locked inside
invisible darkness
broken body
pain wrecked
dada…
forgive me…
i longed to dance in the sunlight of my dreams
but now here i m…
dancing in the dungeons
little duckling was sitting by the side of the playground, drawing circles in the sand…
a little frog came to her and said, “hey would u like to buy a magic marble that can let u hold rainbows in ur hand? buy it and i’ll be ur friend, we can hold rainbows together!”
little duckling’s eyes were bright with wonder, yes of course, she had always dreamed of holding rainbows in her hand… and she always wanted to she rainbows with a friend…
“oh yes, yes, yes, please! i will give u all i hv to u, pls be my friend and share my rainbows!” she answered, breathless with naive hope
but after little duckling had given everything she had for the magic marble, and the little frog had hopped merrily away… little duckling sat in the sand with the marble, wondering, “where r all the rainbows? why hv u gone and left me alone? i thought u said u’d be my friend? there must be some mistake?”
so she chased after little frog, crying out over and over again, “hey, what happened to the marble? why r there no rainbows? why won’t u play with me now?”…
but little frog laughed and pretended not to kw little duckling… “shh, i dont kw u, we never met… now go away and keep quiet!”
and little duckling sat crying alone… alone as she first began, but this time with nothing left but a useless glass marble in her hand
then came baby cow… “why r u crying, little duckling?” and little duckling poured out the marble story
but baby cos laughed and said, “EVERYONE knows there’s no such thing as a magic marble, how cld u be so stupid to believe it and give everything u hv?”
“how silly”, and baby cow walked away, “the frog was just having u on, it’s nothing, stop crying, such a baby u r… why wld a popular kid like the frog want to be ur friend? u’re nothing but a silly dreamy freak! just grow up, will ya!”…
little duckling realises it was her own fault she believes what others say – but that was becos she had a disease called “mind blindness“… her eyes cld see the colours of the rainbows, the oceans, the changing hues of the sky… she wld share all she had with anyone who wld be her friend, but she cld not ’see’ the colours and different hues of careless lies and jokes and games the other kids played…
so the joke’s on her, but it’s ok… little duckling wants to forget what happened and learn how to see as the others see… she longs to smile and trust and love again… but it is a strange place here, and she doesnt kw the rules… but little frog and baby cow will not teach her, and it is impossible without their help…
the playground is a scary place for ‘mind blind’ little ducklings… but who will help her…
will u?
what bitter irony… the themes u choose… all hv resonant echoes inside of me, long long before i ever met u…
bluebeard… and now la’engloutie cathedrale…
coincidence?… maybe… but too cruel such coincidence to bear… it is as if somewhere in time, my soul had been snatched away from me and given to someone else… and i cannot find it back again… no matter how i try… and i m left with a crushed torn cheap useless photocopy…
u will never kw my torment… but i really really wish u well anyway… for in ur hands u carry a child’s tender fragile dreams… as u mock me for my ‘insanity’…
tears
misplaced
fear
disgraced
yearning
without solace
burning
empty furnace
screams
suspended
dreams
devastated
tender love
mocked, defiled
mute hope
invisible chid
———
u see… she has asperger’s… she doesnt really kw what ‘romance’ means… even tho u may think she speaks in ‘romantic’ language… she is a freak in ur eyes, becos she cannot understand ur world… she trips clumsily over pebbles but glides above mountains unseen… her voice was taken from her and given to someone else… her song echoing in silence, screaming in insanity… a nightingale’s trill turned into a crow’s cackle… mocked and avoided as a freak… the invisible child…
