Monday, January 22, 2007


So she ran up the stairs and kept running… running… running… scaling… crawling…
It was an unending flight and she hoped it would lead to heaven, but her home being hell on earth, could not be the chosen gate to paradise, or else, all humanity will die of god’s treachery and the crusader will be the sole Samaritan alive.

Ok, maybe she is insanity but the gypsy said lunacy was far more prevalent than the survey showed. So let’s leave her in peace while she chases the end of an infinite vertical and we watch Angelo snuggle in another’s arms. This must be a dream or else motherhood is overrated, but then again, a dog’s life is better than yours.

Once again she was a little girl with idle afternoons spent conjuring a bloody rivalry between the left and right hand’s fingers. Dexterity and pity for the underdog demonised the right fingers; palm included, to be the epitome of evil, and the left one’s simply hid beneath the white quilt, waiting for yet another battle. For dramatic variety, the rest of the body was often invited to be a neutral beast, pretending to sleep, but waiting to feast on its own fingers.

Charity begins at home, but that includes the bathroom as well, so the cracked plastic mug transformed into a watering hole, quenching thirsty pebbles encrusted in the cemented floor. Often the water supply was deliberately plugged by the municipality of her sadistic index finger and soon the feudal stage would be drowned in the pleas of static grey, cream and white pebbles, till the liquid pressure directly proportional to height, forced the finger away and our stoned mortals were drenched in holy water.

Red corridors and dark rainy afternoons were the only times education was attractive, as scholars were driven away by the howls of enthusiastic slaves, who ran towards a growing muddy squelch. The fairer ones contemplated if the white bras will give away their transparent secrets, only to be corrupted by hormonal interference and they cheered the worthless locker room rejects.

Alas, the innocent tales of freedom and potato chips replaced themselves with wet, sultry encounters of the forbidden kind, and yes, the stairway ended into a blast of chrome.

Storm caught in her hair
All her rocks were exposed
He did not wait long enough
As twilight claimed another hero
Heaven was but the empty lighthouse