Friday, November 12, 2010


She is no one in particular,
but someone to the universe

Do you really need to hear the shrieks?
Catch them in my breath
Behind my dark blue still water
Hear them in my dead thunder
It is passed through the shadows of the unconscious world
her scripture for the living, feeling, diminishing..

We reverberate in young, fast-flowing arteries, the blood
of my blood shall be indilute. And all that she write with her lips,
with each nuance, did surgery to my heart, my brain, like
the pages of a Bible to the will of my actions.
Her eyes are the Garden of Eden,
as they spoke the secrets of heaven, but
sometimes they are midnight - mostly midnight, untouched by
the thousand glare of a slivered sun.

God, she had power
to turn words into statues,
stone and earth, imperishable as
waves, she exhaled a miasma of fallen dreams, untidy
promises, they dubbed her heretical, that she lived her life
like pure poetry, not a misplaced word, a vacant moment,
she danced every dance, birthed every child, crushed the
eschatology of the world, in a prayersong, heard loudest by
the faithless legions, who now march for the experiment
of rogue scientists.

She is no one in particular,
but someone to the universe

She exemplifies the disturbance which
cause most risk incite the most gnashing surprises, and
drowned me in a herbarium of Circe's deceptions,
they are instruments to escape the reals, and confiscations
of intimacy, solitude, pleasure broken, and unworshipped pleasure!
You would sever a limb to stay
inside her Mecca of neurosis, but history recycles itself,
as all ancient gods who gift us in legends and revolutions,
she issacrificed to the nature of vices, like a juxtaposition
of the aesthetic world against an undrugged reality.

She is no one in particular,
but someone to the universe

He who asks shall find no answer
With warnings and sirens and loud agonizing cries
And you act surprised !

A provocation against the ascetically
obscured - she blew in their face a whimsical laughter,
in the dayshine of present beauty that could
embezzle the air from a billionaire's lung.

You will set the monet-images of her life to repeat,
your mind will caress her legacy, and the maceration of
memories, like that day you held her up to face the rain,
soaked in the deluge of joy, she spread her arms
as an angel receiving cosmic precipitation, and you yield-
rain would never look dull.

We are witnesses.. to a visionary performer,
drinking the elixir of scattered grace,
assembled illogically as a mad-artist sketching her gospel
in notepads, contextualised to fit the yin-yang of taoism,
we are opposites she said, to interrelate
and strengthen each other.

She is no one in particular,
but someone to the universe

Like it has always been
And somehow…between white teeth
Tearing your face with smiling gazes
The beast will come alive
Leave ! Don’t touch my hand !

Shield your eyes with my kind sighs
Cover your heart and its flutters
The silence will tame the beast
The dark will tame the beast
Sometime I should thank her
for bringing your consciousness to me,
within a micrometre of extinction;
indistinguishable from a ship wreck.

She is no one in particular,
but someone to the universe

Like mermaids and
howling at the moon
Like you and me

So why

Why you
Why now

There comes a time in life when you walk away from all the pointless drama
and the people who create it, and surround yourself with people who make
you laugh so hard that you forget the bad and focus on the good. Life
is too short to be anything but happy.  - Annette Marie Phillips

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