Friday, April 29, 2011


Between lunges. Between laps. Between falls. Between beatings. Between desperation. Between kisses. Between bitter words. Between lip synching. Between pouring your heart out. Between contractions. Between laughing. Between racking sobs. Between skipping a heartbeat. Between losing your mind. Between crumbling to nothing. Between putting the pieces together again. Between breakdowns. Between making love. Between your routine headlong crashes. Between role plays. Between shifting shapes. Between flying. Between sinking. Between sips of coffee. Between gulps. Between scalded tongues and. between getting burnt. Between messes. Between spring cleaning. Between chewing more than you can bite. Between being stifled. Between smothering. Between panic button pushes. Between paranoiac fits. Between adrenaline rushes. Between going blue in the face. Between unforgiveness. Between loss. Between delirium. Between freedom. Between dancing. Between catching up. Between highs. Between lows. Between building. Between wrecks. Between repair. Between fights. Between accusations. Between salvaging. Between salvation. Between damnation. Between thresholds. Between limits. Between being right. Between mistakes. Between scandals. Between humiliation. Between redemption. Between faltering. Between courage. Between losing your way. Between coming back. Between abandonment. Between hesitation. Between haste. Between getting wasted. Between before and afters. Between in-betweens. Between bottoms-ups. Between upside-downs. Between letting go. Between holding on for dear life. Between screaming your lungs out. Between ennui. Between act 1 and act 2. Between the moment you decide to jump off the edge and the moment you actually jump. Between having the time of your life. Between everyday deaths.
Don't forget to breathe.

Friday, April 8, 2011

6 am and There, there by Radiohead!

The Cockroach stuck its ugly non-head head out of its hidey-hole. Feelers going all over the place, sensing. Antennae seeking. Threats and treats. A weird, ugly stealth machine. So redundant it seemed, all this unnecessary care, considering how brazen these ugly things could be. But still, a little precaution never killed anyone, did it? Or maybe it did. The Cockroach thought of another life, with the twingiest twinge of sadness its non-heart heart was capable of feeling. Nostalgia, the colour of pretty blue and silk black stockings. Butterfly wings fluttering in the sun. Flitting in and out - like a thought tossed in the winds of a drugged stupor. Green cough syrup bottles with sleep floating under their screwed-on caps and potential death that slept in sleeping pills. Wake. Wake up. Wake. Whose wake is this? Whose turn was it to wake up? Corpses of sweetness lay in the aftermath of a nuclear disaster. Cockroaches could survive them, apparently. Unnaive. No nectar, thank you. let's feast on some scraps and left-behinds. Sláinte! To health! The Cockroach scanned its precincts with its super-sensory, ultraviolet, ultra-some-more-shit-infra-red goggles definitely ugly compound eyes. "Is this a good time to get out? Will those bastards try to squash me?Again." it was getting rather tiresome, this dodging business. It just couldn't seem to go anywhere without someone or the other trying to stamp it clean out of existence. Green goo and crusted mud on the underside of someone's boots. Enough of that. The Cockroach pulled its ugly non-body body out of its hidey-hole. "Let's get a breath of fresh air, already."

The Cockroach wasn't always ugly. Hell, The Cockroach wasn't always a cockroach to begin with. The Cockroach was once a butterfly. Fragile, tissue paper wings. Kissed by the sun and loved by one. Flitting in and out - like the sweetness of love. Such sweetness, you could mix it in your morning mug of coffee and still have enough left for your black tea. And for many more mornings to come. And put it under your pillow, to have the sweetest of dreams. And then it happened. The wings tore, the body dropped like a petal from the sky. It lay dying. sweetness crumbling into smudged colored dust on the hot pavement. God appeared. A humorless God. but pretty cool, even if He was dressed in fatigues. And blew a shrill whistle in its ear. God gave it a choice. To die a martyr of love, with books written about it, glowing epitaphs and history-creating eulogies - but dead. Or to be reborn. Ugly. i chose to be reborn. as a cockroach. not pretty. But nevertheless, a survivor.