MEMORIES AT THE BAR

The man in the red suit carefully placed down his pen and crushed his almost finished cigarette on the nearest ashtray. The habit of light-inhale-puff-crush started back in his early twenties. Back then he wanted to be a cool writer; in short he wanted to be the next Stephen king; mysterious and weird, only much cooler. So for a while he lived his life without a care in the world. Smoking and drinking regularly were some of the habits he referred to as cool. He often called himself a bastard, one who had no one and did not care about anything except of course his writing gifts. Yes, at that young age he felt his ability to put his unique thoughts on paper was a gift from up high. It wasn’t until later in life when things became clearer that he decided that writing was not a gift but a reflective curse. For years during his mid-twenties, he felt he was a mess; society’s outcast, and the only reason he thought so was because as a writer he had to bring so much onto the table. From his troubles to the worlds various issues, he just but could not stop writing about these things. Those were the days when ancient riddles always troubled his young and fresh mind. The man in the red suit ordered for another drink, “The bartender by now would be thinking of me as just another old loser by the bar,” he thought. “Spot on,” He confirmed to himself.

His old age could not hide his many troubles, troubles that had being carried over from his young mind into his old feeble bones.

“No wonder they say writers are the world’s oldest historians,” the man in red said not caring if anyone heard him. “The same words we struggle to paint always ends up stabbing us right on our hearts.”

“What did you say sir?” the bartender asked.

“You know I could’ve been a bartender, maybe life would have been different,” The man in red said looking right into the bartender’s eyes.

“You can never tell sir,” the bartender injected. “I enjoy what I do, but I don’t necessarily like it; it’s a blessing and curse at the same.”

The man in the red suit smiled upon hearing those words, and wearing a large grin he replied; “A curse you say, well you talk some sense, but here are some words from a much older fool to younger one, listen, too much sense in this insensible world might be what takes you early to your grave.”

“And what makes you think I’m afraid of dying?” asked the bartender.

“How should I know, all I know is some go earlier than others, it doesn’t matter if you’re afraid or not, just start saving some money for your family, and before I forget I need my drink please.”

And without a word, the bartender turned his back and brought him his drink. The man in the red picked up his drink, gulped some and lit himself a new fresh cigarette. With his lit-inhale process ongoing, the man in red once again took his pen and wrote on a crumbled paper:

“Like the book of vain

We all wait for the end

A strike too many

A fall too lengthy”

#

Special Light

Where is one’s mind when there is only a glass full of spring, placed on a ceramic counter ready for a ‘gulp’? I searched for the needed words, but the words where hard to find. I could write about the receding past, speak about the locked up stories, and fume about the rejected future, but the present times that I was in completely eluded me. There was a wall that I could not climb over. Even the hammer that I held in my hands had no effect when I tried breaking through that monstrosity that stood before me.

So I tried waiting in the calm evening hoping for the birds to fly down my way singing to me those words I had long sought. That did not work. I could not use love, it would have drowned and wasted my thoughts leaving me with an idle pen.

So again what must I find to revive my buried stories? The light that I had held onto for so long was dim and gradually fading even though the ‘ticked’ check on my shoes was made by a just do it company. So what more did I need. The heavens had already spoken bringing the morning to my relief and the sun had also played its part by blinding my eyes with this light, still my matters were unresolved. So what more can one do than hold onto this found light and hope to break this wall piece after piece?

Lost Magic

Listen my child,

The old doctors saw the future

So they crossed legs

And threw stones at the floor

Counting away the time that was to arrive

When will the blue sky turn red? They asked

Amongst them, those afraid had no answers

So they cut down trees

And rolled down heads from stairs

Hoping their cries would instigate

 

A hunter killed a sleeping tiger

Seeking an appraisal from the king

He showed the tiger’s skin to his king

The king seeing the eyes of the beast

Became afraid for his own soul

So, he ordered the hunter back to the woods

 

Back in the woods

The bow-man met with the wife of the tiger

Smitten with her beauty, he fell to ground

Hoping for forgiveness

Smitten with hatred, she broke his bones

Making meal of his dripping heart

 

The world has forgotten its root

Thrown away the honor it never once had

Deep into the intergalactic science

So my child what are?

Rockets to bamboo leaves, cowries to dying cards?

When all we do is stir the course into prevalent rage

An inevitable end to all the bad seeds we have sown 

Dare put your ears to ground

For, you will hear that the birds no longer sing

Only cry for the fate of men of the same kinds

 

SIMPLE WORLD: Summer in Saturn

“So, you’re telling me you have it?”

“Yes I do, every part of me holds it.”
“I can take you with me,”
“To where I found the answers”

“Then give it to me, take me there, I want it, I need it.”

The stars were bright and the showers poured down heavily with haste. The beautiful woman looked at him, staring at his face deep into his soul, as though she had finally found another to share her new found joy.

From her dripping wet hair, to her frivolous smile, she had captured his attention like no other. Struck with an arrow sent from an angel not cupid, he had been hit right on his throbbing heart. He had always protected his heart with anger and fear, but she had gotten hold of his passkeys, with which she had ignited a burning fire deep in his vessel vase flowing with red.

“Who was she?” he thought. She had appeared to him from nowhere telling him that he had nothing to lose in life.
They both sat on the red couch in quiescence, embracing each other, hands interlocked together. In this place, right then, these two souls had broken free from the hard lock of senses, and had found the land beyond love. What was to come? Neither knew. The journey of romance was spread down and the two lovers laid down in the bed of love.

Touch
All alone with his many talking machines, he was lost with the light that shined from all his acquired motherboards. Sounds of bits from his computers all crowded his mind; days after hours, he spent all the years stuck in his own time.
“He was in alone in peace,” he thought. “Away from the hatred”

“But all you have is a piece of this and that,” She said.
“You built a wall of moments.”
“I hold a fragment of time, though not much, I have much to give.”

“Can we do it right?” he asked.

“If we do, we’ll feel it, never stopping to ask if we did.” She replied

“I don’t want to be lost again”

“How can we know we’re lost, when we cannot turn back and see our own shadows?”
“Love, all we need is a time lost in magic.”

Holding On
Where most rocket engines fell apart, the ivory lady and the man in red blasted forward, reaching high up into the skies floating there amongst stars until they both reached the planet Saturn. The sound was absent there because, sound was too loud for one to conceive at a time such as they were in. Screeching to a stop; the flight they took was plummeting to a finale.

“It was the end for them,” some thought.
“How high can one truly go?”

“High enough to fall down flat, only to get back up and fly again,” the two replied both in a singular unison.
“We did it,” she smilingly said.

“Yes, we found the way beyond the land of red,” he replied.

This chapter might be irreversibly lost by alphabets and characters, but their dreams lived on even beyond the closure of books and vinyl cases. The light above the cloud blessed their souls with recurring dreams.

Lucky distances with spinning beginnings.
Out to break away into the light.

SUMMER IN SATURN
.

The Tower of the Lost Souls

The audacity of man
Claiming hands of god
Speaking the reflected light
The hell the world brings out
On earth, full fleshed
The heaven we seek must be fought inside
Or keyed into a chain of faith

The shrieks are loud, only distracting fools
But do hold on for dare soul
For the race is long
And the pain goes in deeper
A new face the world sheds into

Man has no true answer
Only full with false taste
So I pray, hands clasped together
Hoping for the road without destruction
For the commercials initiate the unaware minds
Lashing lust and diamond dreams
Dancing them into a circle of dark clouds

The abstract answer to life are dreams
Face them,
For the world’s light is blinding
Open those minds,
Steer away, for the waves are coming
Full speed, rising high
Landing straight for head, gripping tight for soul

So if you know, then know the red skies will fall one day
But before I preach on, let me go clean away my daily sins

Hard to go out without nothing

In the end, space is the destiny
An infinite to the wasted void
The stars fight for our freedom
Do you see them not rage?
Dripping on the falling dew
Grandiose with the music that swells
Heavy with the bucket of tears

Ride with the tides
Or stay stagnant with the waves
Free trees, paid exercises
Reminisced envelopes, prime talking
Bound to have all that was never wrong
Tired of nobody to have never had love for
Empty with the silence, henceforth

Tie the knot of hope
And pray to wear the brace of admittance

When do the birds do come

When do the birds do come
For every time I whisper
They sing
All thanking the skies for the berries
Praying after the rain had gone
They drain away yesterday water
To the caterpillar, it flows down
To the green leaves, it performs a stagnant tradition
Dancing, enticing the dew of the morning

When do the birds do come
For the time I see the sun
The heat rises from my left side
Blowing wind to me
The crisp warmth of light
Letting the plays from the talking drum ring
Flowing with fresh soup
Hot to mouth, afresh for breath

When do the birds do come
For the evening, frogs croak
Happy for the residing sun
The returning snake shakes lips
Praying for the fruits of tomorrow
Words from the creaking flies
Biting the ears for a chance to listen
Humming for the light remaining

When do the birds do come
Maybe until the coming of sun
Silently accepting the visit of night
A night blissful with dark

Ridiculous

It really is the perfect thing. But your mind fights it relentlessly, it struggles to come with terms of what you have seen before. Our minds have been bathed with movies, ideals, fairy tales, preconceived hatred. So how can you accept what your soul longs for? when you have never listened to it. There is no picture of your soul anywhere in the world, even on those colossal billboards you pass by. A fact is a fact. It is there so people, normal people like me can dissect and try to make a meaning of it. But a soul is not a fact. I can’t say it’s something more, because I’ll only be contradicting myself (Maybe I already did). You can’t dissect or explain a soul. It’s abysmal in dark terms, and blissful in heavenly description. The concept of soul mates has been hacked and slacked into a meaningless sense of lust. How can our five senses be associated with soul when souls are neither smell nor sex? Beautiful, if you ask me. I mean the idea of having a soul locked into specific functions, when all our floating entity wants to do is move and flow with life.

Intermission; this rice will not consume itself, neither will this cherry Gatorade