50 Going On 100

“I read once that the ancient Egyptians had fifty words for sand & the Eskimos had a hundred words for snow. I wish I had a thousand words for love, but all that comes to mind is the way you move against me while you sleep & there are no words for that.”

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Comfortable silences are overrated.

There. I said it. Or a dude in a song did; either way:

I don’t like to indulge them.

Not when there are a million stars and twice as many constellations, not when the air can smell like the ocean even though there isn’t one for miles and miles, not when we could be laughing or–

“It feels like forever,” she says, eyes closed and hands clutching at the grass. “I feel like we’ve been coming up here for forever,” and it’s strange because she’s never been one for over-exaggerations but maybe she’s not here. “Hasn’t it been forever?” eyes open now but looking over a place that isn’t here, but someplace where that could be true. I shrug.
“It feels like forever,” she repeats, just because she can.
“Maybe,” I acquiesce. A beat. Then, “I’m bored.
“Wanna race to the river?” she asks, and then she’s off as I pull up, slower than I would have liked, behind her, our laughs ringing out as we shoot down the hill.

We have been coming up here forever. The ridiculous ribbons she insists on wearing for no other reason than the alliteration stream out behind her, much like my hair–displaced in a way I haven’t been for well over a couple years now. In the days of sketchy motels and blurry towns, the realization would have sent a jolt of panic up my spine but today (here), the familiarity slides smoothly into a hollow that had gone unannounced until it was gently removed.

I speed up just a little and don’t bother to refrain from gloating.

“Well of course you won, your legs alone could be 6 feet tall, you freak,” she gasps out between breaths once she’s finally at the bank and I shove at her until we both collapse, a heap of fluttery dresses and skirts and slightly torn t-shirts.

What feels like hours, but could quite possibly be mere minutes, pass as we catch our breaths, the sky a washed-out blue that’s so boring but so immensely reassuring that I forgive it for it.

“The Eskimos didn’t have a hundred words for snow, by the way,” I blurt out for some reason.
She’s understandably confused. “What?”
“There’s that quote you like, right? With the Eskimos and Egyptians? It’s a myth, I looked it up.” I don’t know who I’m punishing. If I am.
She’s squinting, “Oh, I know. It’s just nice to think it anyway, is all.”
“Hmm.” I start humming a song she starts tapping out on her knee.

 

“I read once that the ancient Egyptians had fifty words for sand & the Eskimos had a hundred words for snow. I wish I had a thousand words for love, but all that comes to mind is the way you move against me while you sleep & there are no words for that.”

Yours Truly,
S.C.C.O.P

P.S  What’s this??????? not??? a??? poem????
It’s barely like 500 words but hey, it counts!

Confessions of a Retiring Serial Metaphorist (Not To Be Confused With Metamorphist)

I wring out poetry
from used bandages left
by others who bleed poetry.

Words painted gold
painted
pink
purple
cerulean bold.

But I am sick of violets
growing beneath my eyes
they’re not, its skin,
I’m only tired and sleep-deprived.
an unexpected blood-stain
on sleep-heavy sheets
is not an ode to my strength
nor a sin for which to flog me,
it’s only biology.

There are no galaxies in my eyes,
no cosmic rivers in my veins,
at least, none that are not there in everybody else’s.
(Newsflash: The Big Dipper is not my copyright.)

I wring out poetry
from books that are falling apart on my shelf,
from flaky spines and too-sweet pages
that drip honey onto my lips

(But there are 15 of those I have still not read)

I wring out poetry
from flesh and skin
and people who don’t put sunscreen

But I am sick
of hair spun from gold,
of hands that trace lightning into my soul
of alternate realities that come to a standstill when I take a breath
of things that are not me,
or you,
things weighed down with an importance
that does not ring true.

I bleed poetry when I say
I like you,
and think:
this is the place to be.

(within walls that do not suffocate,
and paint that peels
and plants that never flower
but grow a deep green
and weeds that bloom with a defiance
blue
yellow
pink
in places they shouldn’t be.
here, there is poetry
and less of a pretense;
indoor voices unnecessary–

because we’re here too short
to play it cool;
we’re here too brief
to run ourselves hoarse
over things we don’t care about)

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Yours Truly,
S.C.C.O.P
(Simran Can’t Curse On Paper)

ps: I say retiring metaphorist but I mean forced metaphors. I can’t do away entirely with metaphors. An apple cannot simply be an apple, pfffffft where’s the fun in that? An apple is (has to be) cyanide, the death of innocence, the loss of paradise.
A vain hag’s final attempt at superficial relevance.

Every Story But Mine

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i am 23 and singing to a girl
who does not love me-
-but that’s not true i am only 18.
a pretentious witch
who has never fallen in love
but can pretend
and shamelessly exploit
the theoretical heartbreak anyway.

i am 48 and clawing at a nicotine noose
that only seems to cling closer-
-but that’s not true i am only 18.
and smoke may look good in black and white
but cigarettes make my eyes water.

i am 34 and burning the slippers
of a husband who left me-
-but that’s not true i am only 18.
and the burning plastic would
only serve to poison me.

i am 9 and aboard a train
and the man kisses my hand-
-but that’s not true i am 18.
and kindness can be a disguise.
 

yours truly,

[idk man do I even need to sign-off? why am I making this harder than it has to be]

Dreaming Boy

I will not write in green.

There are no adventures for me.

No films with watery sunlight.

No sea-worn glass on a pebbly beach.

No pirates to sing my praise,

no evil lairs that I set ablaze.

 

But no matter.

There are worse tragedies at play (they say):

The birth of a man.

 

‘The boy is gone’,

they cry,

eyes warm and too bright.

And it echoes into the tearful night:

the boy is gone.

 

–but the girl was never even born,

and her story lies blank.

No grand tales in golden lettering,

purple leaves or dark blue dreams.

No crown to place atop her head

or cape of torn, worn sheets.

 

what is a boy, but a young, bright thing

scrambling to love what it can.

what is a girl but a dangling string,

once taut, now barely seen.

 

Broomstick cowboy, won’t you stay?

Bless this land with songs of play.

Dreaming girl, won’t you wake?

Don’t you see the things at stake.

 

Yours Truly,

Simran

Stardust Schmardust

In which I am a sloth, but all you see is the flower.

They whisper:

‘you have stardust in your veins.’

And fling you into the night.

(justification for offering you to the dark,

to be forgotten once out of sight)

 

A “dying star” they tag you,

running their hands along your wrist;

except that is only half true,

but that doesn’t matter once you’re shrouded in mist–

-coloured pink and pale blue,

cherry blossoms like some Japanese cartoon.

You are not you.

 

But a story, poem, heartbreak

to be immortalized in paper and glue;

tragic and tortured

–because how else would they love you?

 

Yours Truly,

? (I need another sign-off, that image wasn’t even mine, I just found it on the interwebz)

 

PS. Oh would you look at that. Actual, regular posts?! Hah, no. The last 3 were things I had written before but forgotten to put on here but then decided I shouldn’t deprive you of those because they are so great just the best top marks top notch the absolute best is what they are. 

PPS: how’s this for a sign off:

200

In which I despise you, but sometimes I don’t.

You are the ocean.

—in all the ways one shouldn’t be:
Cold and scorching,
Demanding and destructive.
Unwanted.
Chasing the air out of their very lungs,
Them out of their very homes.
A suffocating wall of scales and teeth
shrouded in blue and grey.

But still they look at you and see gentle waves.
Glittering sand and ice cream cones.

 

Yours Truly,

sign-off

 

you make me laugh but it’s not funny

With the dawn of winter, a series of births took place amidst the population on Earth. They gave rise to peculiar little children–the first on earth to not be perfectly Happy. Or Sad. Or Angry. These kids discovered desperation.

Those who gave birth to them–The Happy–did not understand. What was this–this grey fog their children writhed in silently, mechanically? What was this watered down imitation sunshine that bathed their houses and plants and roads? The Happy did not understand.

The Sad–who came before the birth of The Happy–were similarly flummoxed. What were hesitant smiles that did not perfectly contrast their misery? What was this tentative hope, hesitant optimism?

The ancestors of The Sad–The Angry–understood the newest people in a way the other two generations didn’t. Of course, their great grandchildren were still freaks as far as they were concerned, but they could see the method to their madness. They understood desperation, even if they were unfamiliar with the intermittent moments of apathy that followed.

The Happy, The Sad and The Angry all loved the newest people unconditionally. The Happy delighted in the way their fingers dipped in the colours and drew swirls of beautiful, bright madness in the air. The Sad wept with them when they sobbed the tears of the discontent and wailed as they cried the woes of the distressed. The Angry ranted with them against the injustice of the skies and the flesh, and the betrayals of the heart and the mind.

And to all this, I stood a spectator.

The newest people took off sometimes. You can stay in the same place and still find ways to leave people, it’s fairly simple. They took off in the still night, picking locks with pieces of hearts ripped empty and sharpened to a point; crystallised preservations you could hear over the dripping of the faucet if you listened hard enough.

They’d breathe in the night air and look at the stars and grasp comfort from lights long dead and so far. The Sad once told them that stars are just stars. Not dead lovers illuminating the dark.

The stars are just stars, but some flowers used to be people, The Angry would hurriedly placate. For instance, windflowers sprang forth when Adonis’ blood fell to the earth. The hyacinth used to be Hyacinthus, a victim of jealous rage, the narcissus, the lily, the lotus.

The kids laughed and wept and joked and threatened to choke on the air they inhaled. Some of them fell in love and forgot to be sad, others fell in love and forgot what it was to be happy, still others did neither and stared at the scenery. And this has been their story.

The End

Yours Truly,

sign-off