Friday, May 9, 2008

silver stripes

striped skivvies. striped pencils. striped scarves. striped towels. stripey plates. stripey boxes. bikes with racing stripes. yes. yes these are all good things featuring stripes. zebra crossings. zebras. double white lines. lollypop ladies. black and white stripes. red and white stripes. bulls-eyes. i have a little hankering for striped boiled lollies - the type that are kept in glass jars. nostalgia is kick-starting my taste buds. mmm. mattress ticking. speeding stripes. not one single spot in sight.
c h a l k talk
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a hank of her hair: anne french

When he found it
it was the blaze that shocked him
its red flare in the darkness,
its weight, like a body part
an amputation
a ripe fruit.
He sniffed it, expecting
a feral stink
the scent of her
some kind of perfume
or perhaps all three.
Its mustiness recalled all the cupboards
of all the houses they have ever lived in
in several countries
and it inside them all along,
wrapped and waiting
for this moment.
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garbageman: the man with the orderly mind: gwendolyn brooks

What do you think of us in fuzzy endeavor, you whose directions are

sterling, whose lunge is straight?
Can you make a reason, how can you pardon us who memorize the rules and never score?
Who memorize the rules from your own text but never quite transfer them to the game,
Who never quite receive the whistling ball, who gawk, begin to absorb the crowd's own roar.
Is earnest enough, may earnest attract or lead to light;
Is light enough, if hands in clumsy frenzy, flimsy whimsically, enlist;
Is light enough when this bewilderment crying against the dark shuts down the shades?
Dilute confusion. Find and explode our mist.
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if you wish our stripe stopped, tell us. if you wish our pinstripes kept racing, tell us that too.
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the constant rhythm of waves crashing, sand underfoot, in the bottom of your bed. mosquitoes still linger, as though to suck out the very last of the sunshine via your veins. extra-early birds whistle in the morning light, i bunker down hiding under my doona, hoping it's darker for just a little longer. just fifteen more minutes. hit the snooze, well i would if i had one, but instead, my alarm comes in the shape of a three year old wanting to snuggle up close and bury his limbs under my body.
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1 comment:

design for mankind. said...

What a beautiful work of writing. Wow.