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Anxiety and Me
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Imojinn
Chaos Of Entanglement
Gaia – Grubby Finger Marks And Bolognese Spots.
“If I had just got that train, would he still be here?”
I asked the wall.
Wall was silent,
But calm in the kitchen,
Which was greatly needed by all of the household.
Cooking endeavours always found favour
In Pollock splatterings
Along the teal coloured tiles.
The soft mint green wall,
Freshly painted only a week ago,
Had already invited grubby finger marks and bolognese spots.
Grubby finger marks and bolognese spots
Always caught his school boy shirt.
Tea-towels would be stuffed down his collar,
But it would still be inevitable
That stains would surface;
A pointless exercise,
But nonetheless a tradition
And always met with:
“Mum gerr off!”
And my reply in a thousand unwanted kisses on his forehead.
A thousand unwanted kisses on his forehead
And a thousand more hugs.
How I would give ten thousand more
And never let go.
How I would shape him now,
Like a folded piece of paper sealed into an envelope
And stuff him into my breast pocket;
My left hand clasping at my chest.
My left hand clasping at my chest,
My heart pounding
As hard as boxer fists.
Air tighter now.
A person should be able to just breathe.
The teal coloured tiles now shattered into a million tiny pieces.
No more grubby finger marks and bolognese spots.
Chaos Of Entanglement
Cyrus – Part 2
I can see the wound,
Mirrored now, in my stomach;
The rivers run red
Escaping from the mountain’s summit,
Bursting out from the dams
And these hands, my hands morrooned!
Soiled in blood!
I watch in horror,
My eyes glued,
As it trickles down my fingertips
In vast vast volumes,
Like waterfalls chasing the cliff’s edge.
And all the warmth of my being evaporated;
Leaving only the heavy handed stillness of the cold,
So cold
And the sharp bite forced by the blade’s mold.
I close my eyes to allow the darkness to unfold.
I close my eyes to allow the darkness to unfold
And to consume the colour of my knowing;
A vain attempt to erase what has already been seen,
But I can still feel the ghost of the blade
And the blood just keeps on flowing,
It keeps on flowing.
Only it’s not me.
My body is over there!
There on the pavement!
What am I?
A reflection,
An echo?
Maybe this is my soul’s limbo?
Shit!
How will my story be told?
Any moment now
The vultures will descend
For their pound of flesh;
Pens in hands, like talons,
Scavaging with reckless abandon.
I can see it now on the news,
Like a vision
And the half masted vesseled truths
Shipped from the anchor’s puppet led tongue:
“Locals observed a group of black youths,
On the corner of Head’s Mews,
Enter into a disagreement,
Which then escalated
And resulted
In a fatal stabbing.
Leaving the victim dead
On the concrete pavement
Near the scene of the crime.
Raising London’s death toll
From knife crime
To rise to 59.
We asked the London Mayor:
‘What has increased this surge in knife crime
Amongst black on black youths to climb?’”
I wonder, will they refrain
From mentioning my name?
Continue serving up sentences
Based on bias convictions
Because my melanin predicates
That i’m more violent towards my ‘own’ kin?
That’s how they’ll spin!
Publicising false indictments against the colour of my skin
And my name hidden behind headlines
And pictures of designer hand-bags
And erectile dysfunction adds!
Fuck me right?!
Nevermind though-
Just another lad
Mixed up in ‘gang related’ crime.
Victim 59;
A predictable faceless statistic
On a bell curve
Shaping an ambiguous graph,
To serve no purpose!
None!
“And now for the weather where you are.
How’s it looking?”
Chaos Of Entanglement
Cyrus – What’s in a name?
It was in summer that I was born and named;
A late bloomer conceived and coloured by midnight
And cradled by the moon’s grace.
By autumn, news threw leaves of vicissitude
On this pubescent nation,
Which seeded voices of confusion.
For years I was unable to name myself in the right hues,
But I endeavoured to compare my skin
Amongst all the other named colours;
I tasted them all,
But none were in season and so I thought.
Arrogance had blinded this sighted boy,
But only briefly.
And as realisation began the process
Of unfurling her bright petaled wings,
I was gifted the vision of clarity.
In the sense that I could see,
That, I too, have yet to reveal my named colours
And only through the invitation
Of spring’s celebration
Could I unveil, the shape, the colour, the fragrance
Within my name.
My mantra would be patience.
Slain in winter’s wake,
I wilted and became nameless;
Lost and buried under soil,
My voice was tapered by foul and twisted tongues.
I was never named in spring.
I remain the ‘budding boy slain: Victim 59.’
This is not my name.
Queen of the night
“Night-blooming cereus is the common name referring to a large number of flowering ceroid cacti that bloom at night. The flowers are short lived, and some of these species, such as Selenicereus grandiflorus, bloom only once a year, for a single night.”
The evening sky
Exhales a blackened sigh
Of midnight relief;
Driving the darkness to unfurl its wings.
The exhausted day rests
And curls her limbs before the rebirth
Of tomorrow’s whispered awakenings.
The lighted cities cast creeping shadows
Behind the footsteps of men’s borrowed sorrows,
Like loyal dogs in step with their master’s call.
And I have heard the howl
Of sleeping men and women
As they have gazed at the moon
And made lunacy their daily concubine.
And I have seen the adolescent tongue of revolution
Incarcerated,
Forgotten,
Silenced by media asylum,
Like rose buds slain prematurely
Before they reach full bloom.
And I have seen visions televised on screen
Of tanks
And bombs
And guns
Aimed at the countless unknown;
This, is how democracy is shown.
And as I wrestle with the vines
Of deafening solitude
There is a moment
Of quiet clarity
In the serenity
Of the ordinary.
I hear a faint echo
That encourages my feet
To pirouette on my axis.
Bringing me face to face with a foreign beggar
On the corner of Saint Mary Axe.
The beggar repeats the words wrapped within the echo;
”Get home safe child. She has come!”
His wild eyes communicate with the same manner of urgency
And from the blackness of his pupil,
I came upon the white fragrant flower of revolution;
The splendid terrible wonder
Shone only by the moonlight
Amidst the darkness and terrors
Of our laboured nights –
She has returned.
She is in bloom.
The queen of the night.
