City Of Enigma

I love this city,

it's a pity how in other places people who cover their faces behind scars we can't see switch blades for money in alleyways end up caged behind bars.

I love this city,

where we don't really have to worry about cars carrying bombs fueled by hate and discrimination, where more ideologies than lives are at stake.

I love this city,

this nation where foreign relations means quarreling over the price of water coming to a slow boil and not waging war over oil, explosive.

The question stands:

Perhaps the question is not 'what do we have to fear' but rather 'what kind of fear do we have'?

In this city, walk out the door, curtains up, it's a pantomime:

Ladies and gentleman, for your safety, please stand behind the yellow line.

Ladies and gentleman, for your safety, please become passive beings.

For your safety, please watch TV regularly and eat processed food,

For your safety, fear interaction,

For your safety, please, fear to speak to the person sitting next to you.

After all, he or she might be that suspicious looking passenger they keep telling me to look out for,

So I will lock my doors and windows behind bars shaped like grills,

And I will scramble for my seatbelt if I see a man dressed in white on a motorbike,

And I will not smoke near the interchange in fear of some strange man wanting to make me pay 300 dollars for endangering the health of the other commuters who're breathing in the stealthy invisible fumes of their buses anyway.

Nothing I say can truly express;

How much I love this city,

And how much this city loves me,

After all we are free, these laws are for our benefit.

There's nothing to it, we have a loyal, patriotic army willing to give their lives for the greater good,

Men who would gladly fight for the nation that made them serve two years of their lives on paychecks that could barely pay rent,

It's evident that we're safe.

But just in case:

Ladies and gentleman, please, for your safety, fear interaction,

For your safety, please, do not speak to the person next to you,

And please, for your safety, stand behind the fucking yellow line.

Encounter

I'm a fresh new

face of the earth baby

with these full-on tint,

sharp, shades, can't

see me watching you

from behind dark glasses now eh?

I've got a pencil-thin gaze,

drawing out the shapes your lips make

when you say

"Yeah, my girlfriend's really cool that way"

I say "That's just great",

I'm happy for you, I am

and think, please don't make me

lie again,

cos I'm a scratch without an itch,

so make small talk while the weather's nice,

and don't stand

too close,

or I'll remember your smell,

and the bed-sheets I had thrown in the laundry,

damp with our sweat.

The Photographer

You could hardly breathe, every time

he came around. You saw his tall, imposing

figure and naturally your throat

would constrict, you would shrink so

impossibly small you could fit into the

center of a shuttered rose.

Or would grow so bold you could look

a ravenous tiger in the eye. It was

a sort of magic that only

he had. He never looked at what you

were wearing, or how you'd

styled your hair - he was more interested in

the way the light struck your face, the

angles at which you stood, the depth of field.

Things you barely understood. You were

forced to stand and sit for hours

on end, while he circled you slowly. It excited

you, his predatory prowl. To him it was

merely routine. To you -

The raison d'etre.

You were content to let him work. You

never once thought to interfere with

the genius you saw in those

confident workings of his hands, his intelligent

eyes. So you

remained obediently still under the

instantaneous flashes of the bulb,

under his scrutinizing gaze, in spite

of the little pieces of you he was

taking away with him, the glossy

framed 4R portraits too slippery to

contain your feelings. You saw them sliding off

in the darkroom, merging into rounded drops

of liquids to plunge to tiny details from hanging easels into

cold trays of silent water.

And so you said nothing, while

he struggled with objectivity

and loved you behind lenses.

The Difficulty of Leaving Nothing Behind

"Where are you going?" she asked.

He was standing in the doorway, carrying a bag.

"I'm leaving you," he said. "I've fallen in love with another woman."

"Okay," she said, "but could you please remove all the fallen strands of hair from the hairbrush, finish up all the cans of beer in the fridge and throw out the extra bottles of shaving cream you keep in the medicine cupboard?"

"I've done all that. I've done everything. I'm leaving."

"Okay," she said. "then get rid of everything that you touched. Everything that you looked at. Everything that has your smell. Everything that will remind me of you. Everything that will bring back memories of you. Anything remotely linked to you has to go."

And while he pondered over how he was to achieve this, she left.

Tonight

And now,

a burst of color. You

stun me with your unpredictability.

You held me up beneath

the lamp by the beach:

the deep tan of your skin -unblemished-

caught the light and gleamed.

Perfectly symmetrical, you started

at a point, and curved downwards

in opposing directions, forming the kind of

heart you only see on Valentine's

Day cards. Unusual,

for one of your kind.

I took the chance. Brought

you to my lips, which grew red

in the reflection of your eyes;

and bit.

Which came first? The crunch of your

peel breaking, or the taste

of sweetness in my mouth, I

can't say. Perhaps they both happened

at the same time, it matters not. This

much I know now.

I could not have stopped it - nothing

could have stilled, or slowed

the jealous meandering of your

venom through my blood. It snaked

its way past

the white lines of my defenses and

would not stop until it

quelled my pounding heart.

And then,

it all changes. Everything,

everyone just disappeared.

I knew what I had to say;

"Don't go. Stay with me tonight."

Lament

I know your kind:

the suffering intellectual;

overly sensitive and

melodramatic. Almost

always pale, and with spindly

fingers that grip

your only weapon - the pen -

that wear the constant

wounds of battle, paper cuts

from which you tenderly kiss

blood off,

refusing the offer of

a tissue or a plaster - some

sort of new age declaration

of in-dependency and gender role

reversals, because

you think too much.

And you want me to see it;

how everything you say is

layered with meaning

from obscure books you've read

that I've never even heard of,

how your words are

carefully chosen and lovingly

crafted, how you

write down a sentence or phrase

that strikes you as

beautiful, a quirk, you say,

but to me, merely

a gestus for all the actors

who play your type.

Because I know your kind:

the sentimental poems and

songs to first capture the heart,

then cage it in.

I know the questions that

betray your insecurity

do you love me

do you love me

do you love me?

Do I love you? The unrelenting

calls at midnight,

the emotional blackmail, the

crying, the fights. No not

fights - debates. For there

is an artist's hand in

everything you do.

Life is one big canvas,

spread out for your art,

your words, your

self-indulgence.

And always, always and

above all, your loyalty

is to beauty.

Beauty in all

things, in the face of your

lover, in the way you

hold their hand, the way

you touch the side of their

face, the way your

lips brush theirs, the way you break

their heart.

Shore

His music filled me with a colorless silence. So,

I dug deep, and found the chords hidden in my piano;

They were warm.

They greeted my fingers like soft shells in the sand.

I could not understand this shoreline,

This shifting thing with salty tidings;

It was like a broken music box, with the dancer going round and round.

Long after the song had stopped.

But still, like how even in the night, I would know the waves were green,

I would know the foam was white, and that the sand was just;

The dust of a yellow sun.

That had dreamed itself into the blue.

So I knew I would find you, in these black and white keys.

On the second of April on the holiday.

My fingers dug deep, and the notes were tiny treasures,

That I held up gently;

And guided to a shore that was already resurfacing.

Tricks of the Eye

She sees him in every surface.

Sometimes she turns her head quickly and his face appears in the crowd, but when she looks closer he disappears and she's staring at someone else's unfamiliar face; sometimes when she's looking out the window of the bus, the back of a stranger's head can suddenly become his and for an instant she loves - knows - that stranger, and then he turns away and reverts back to the original so that the moment of recognition escapes her grasp and she breathes in only air.

At times a wall can remind her of his leg; a painting bears close resemblance to his eyes; the curve of a bridge she might liken to his smile; a building call to mind his chest. At times a single flower breathes his breath; the midnight traffic echoes his whisper; all the universe is every part of him and she can see them, everything, one at a time.

He is everywhere, but he is never really there. She knows every part of him - can count his hairs, can trace the lines of his skin, can pick out his back from a throng of people - and yet, she has never really known him at all.

It's just tricks of the eye.

Pièce De Résistance

No.
I am not going to make a list - again
of the things you like.
I am not going to break down
your silent walls just so I can
glimpse the city within.
I will not send
gifts of gold and rare jewels
to appease your princely temper.
Instead,
I will walk with immense care
on the outskirts of your
kingdom, and await
the royal messengers you dispatch.

I will listen when they
deliver words to me - words that
fell from your lips,
and I will imprison them all,
except for one, whom I will
send scurrying, cowering back to you,
tail between his legs.
His compatriots, not so lucky,
I will enjoy skinning alive,
and feeding to my tiger with the coat of flames.
I will wear mourning colors,
and sit of the highest sand dune
that faces your city.

There.
I will wait your next move.
For I have learnt from my
previous petitions,
and this is my great resistance.