Thursday, October 22, 2009

A lyric girl

And then she realized she was part of literature.

Not the history or its theoretical reminiscences, but an actual living part, like a plot or a theme; a central metaphor, a humming bird. A lyric girl.

She was carrying herself as books had told her. She lived in ink.

She could only interpret relationships following Baudelaire's will. She tried to be mysterious and part of the Generation X. She longed for being a savage detective. She was Illuminations and Figures III. She was sick with the Montano malady.

And she had been told before. You are too analytical, my dear. Too cold, too ungrammatical... to much of a linear love. Generation Y.

You make your own speech and reality, those people don't exist. Stop trying to see through the fog, there is only fog out there. And houses, and cars, and street lights and meaningless sex. An awful amount of reflectance beasts. Your heart pumping gas.

She made boys fall in love with her only to write about it. She was that paperful.

Paperless.

She yearned to read love stories and feel identified, mutter love sentences as a remembered speech. She was that powerful.

And she started reading herself, like a short story. Like a fast food menu. She was the millennium burger, the combo #2.

Powerless.

She was an entry at the yellow pages and a Facebook page. And all the graphic sounds, and all the kings men, couldn't put her back together again.

She fell out of love after a good 150 pages and 2 days.

A

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Rampant melody

Bright noises,
Boisterous thoughts,
I scream for you,
In my head. It's all about
Me and this rampant melody.

Symphony of
Sighs, and ifs...
Too many sharp notes,
Jumping from site to site,
Twitching the core,
The main core of this
Rampant melody.

When did you start muttering
Biting songs
Inside my mind? Reading in
Between the
Lines of this autobiography?

But there is no you,
You are my honed me.
It's all about
Me and this rampant melody.

A.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Free rein to curiosity

Curiosity
Tends to enjoy a free rein.

A hand is placed on a
Knee. Slightly warm, slightly
Moist.

Lift it and the rim,
Slightly darker,
Like steam, caresses me.

A word is whispered.

Barely breathing, its humid wave
Crisps me.

Bracing... the back of a neck.
Sweating hot and cold.
Soft and starred: white night.
Sleepless cotton hope.

Your breath, like vapor, bounces of
My fervent skin. Slightly shaking,
The wet stain of a kiss.

A temple, that spot under my chin,
Your words bounce back.

Chest, stomach,
That spot behind my knee,
All crisp.

Brisk.

Curiosity.
Now tends to enjoy a free rein.

A.


Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Aqua-gym


Ladylike in a recreation pool,
I feel myself trying to do push-ups
And underwater crunches.

The water prunes me and shows
My true age. I'm sixty
And
Twelve years old.

Underwater and moist,
Wet and soft;
Tender, like a new born.

Swimming comes natural
To babies and dogs,
You and I had to be trained,
Taught how not to drown.

And we jump,
Lift our left
Leg up.
Torso tight,
Tight hold.
Tight grasp,
To tight breathe,
Breathing in,
Don't breathe in or
You'll sink.

My every day is like aqua-gym.

A.