I’ve always been a little macabre – but my handwriting got better
While cleaning like a mad woman this weekend (due to an ant invasion following one of our monsoon storms) I came across some ancient writings. Barely legible – i decoded them. Turns out they were mine. I’m going to share some with you – put your decoder ring away, I’ve translated.
Pressure valves and tourniquets
Defensive words and dinner plays
Gulping works with dirty water
Sweaty palms grope virgin daughter
Warnings drilled, opinions form
Cautious cold heart replaces warm
Another Untitled One
Nervous glances give me all I need for long due confirmation
Opening wounds containing memories of nightly degradation
Clammy hands that shake with age rest on his boney lap
Familiar hands that shook me from the safety of my nap …
“A toast then, to Mrs. Maple and her generous contribution to the club!”
Lift glass – tilt glass – consume – put down glass – smile
“Her selfless sacrifice continues the tradition of commitment and giving of self”
Applaud – smile – nod in agreement
“Well then shall we retire to the lounge for the festivities?”
Get up – follow person in front – walk to room
“Everyone in? Good. Shut the door please.”
Find a seat – sit – smile
“Let us begin. Mr. Maple, you may bring your wife up now.”
Turn to Mr. Maple – smile – turn attention back to speaker
“That’s it, bring her right in – over there, on the table if you don’t mind Mr. Maple.”
Observe ritual – don’t turn away – don’t flinch – don’t cry
Excerpt from an untitled 8 page writing
… yet I do enjoy the continuity of the source of my complaining. The dependable encounters I’ve grown accustomed to. A home of sorts with no surprises left to find, and people left on guard not willing to trust quickly or care too soon.
I’m guilty of the same crime that keeps me at arm’s length.
We allow the best of our wardrobes out and wittiest comments in discussions. Our best touched by exploring eyes – purposely blinded to miss any deeper layers – any complex facets, faults or hidden failures.
Afterall, why expose anything more than appeasing traits …
My eyes remained closed as my mother leaned gently over my bed and brushed a few stray hairs from my forehead. I loved the smell of my mother when she came home from a night out. Chanel No. 5 and fresh air mingled with her personal ‘motherly smell’. I breathed her in as I feigned sleep.
Posted on August 17, 2014, in Creative Writing, Uncategorized and tagged creative writing, excerpts, poetry, vingnettes. Bookmark the permalink. 2 Comments.
So thought provoking, just wonderful.
Thanks Alyce x. Thought of you yesterday, when considering painting in pink. 🙂