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The Clown

"At times I wonder, if I'm behind that colorful mask that I wear. Perhaps, I don't have a face. It's just a procession of hundred eyes trying to see inside me.... where I'd stopped existing a long time back. But if you smile you'll probably find me in one corner of your eyes."


MY OTHER BLOGS

When Darkness Blinks

"A cold fire, once in a while, extinguished the snow."

Archives

Choices Sep 17, 2007 |

When she slept on the grass, it seemed she were a plant. And if you'd pluck one of her leaves she'd no longer be able to express her pain.

When she slept on the winds, it seemed she were a cloud. And if there's a storm she'd breakdown in happiness.

When she slept on a palm, it seemed she were a child. And if her mother returned she'd smile in her sleep.

When she slept in my eyes, it seemed she were aglow. And if the angels came, they'd burn in her flame.

When she slept inside me, it seemed she were awake. And if ever she were to wake up from the others, she promised she'd sleep inside me.

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SEEDS of ILLUSION



Susurrus Concepts of the Better Half*
AUTHOR: Telula Eyre

"Scamp Bits of Poetry. An easy art; to write on crumpled blue napkins in a bathroom stall, a ball point pen, blue ink, shaking hands. Nothing to fill a book with- just a bit of thought on thin cloth, ink bleeding through to the skin."



A Parade of Falling Rain
AUTHOR: If Only

"Warm tears? Or cold? Ancient heartfelt touches lasting more than mere moments? Or something new, something that thrills and pulses with a beat you can't quite keep in time? Inclined to grab for both? Perhaps they're the same. Touch of the air, smell of the grass, overcast sky above. A new perception to contrast this one. Enjoy your stay. Soft lullabies"



arcane matter out of place - invisible ticket punch
AUTHOR: Wm. Rike

"Draining myself, I was inverted alchemy, transforming precious into base:
when first blast hit,
my flesh fell from my bones,

tenderly,
tenderly."



Tea With The Birds
AUTHOR: Tea With The Birds

"The desert lies in front of him like a puzzle he can't solve. He recalls a picture pinned to a fridge in a kitchen in a big town. A picture drawn by a child with crayons. A picture of sand and sky and sun. Yellows and blues. The picture stays for years and the child gets bigger. He doesn't draw with crayons anymore. The picture starts to fade from the rays of the real yellow sun in the real blue sky of the big town. And then the child comes to the desert and finds that the sand isn't yellow."



Unlabeled
AUTHOR: Anna Piutti

"I ran my fingers over dry skin and
heavy lids;
my stare caressed a clock obsessing
over sunsets.

I swallowed dreams, and vivid hopes,
cursing,
beforetime,
their lingering aftertaste."



a longing for the impossible
AUTHOR: JEM

"It sounds like an oath - a dedication to cruelty or revenge. It sounds like the late night whisper of a young girl with evil eyes and sharp fingers. A girl who will tear a gap in the night sky - an everpresent white reminder that will burn until you are old."



Eco_de_lluvia

Echoes_of_Rain
AUTHOR: Saore

"If memory flies
on the tip of the tongue
during the last days of winter,
why wait for funerals to caress forgiveness?

If moths labial movement
hum innocence or irreverence,
why does memory begin to freeze
radical roots in autumn?"



Flash Fiction
AUTHOR: Rebecca Jane

"One June evening, at the Maxwell Street market, Eva's dark eyes seduced a local ward politician. He would make her his wife after she attended lots of funerals with him where she used those eyes. Those eyes! Eyes that spoke rhymes"



The Chaotic One
AUTHOR: Sly Boots

"I killed myself to be born again
needles cover my middle hand
and all the worms eating my eyes
I will fall down from the skies"



The Muslin Opaque

Pocket Full of Mumbles
AUTHOR: ELAshley

I watch you as you lay sleeping, listen to the sound of your dreaming. Do you dream of me? As I, when I dream of the sea, hear it speak with your voice? My lover is calling even now; I can hear her thundering beyond this room. If you awoke now, would you recognize your own voice calling me? Would you walk with me to greet her, feel her pull at us both, and under the burning stars make love?"



Le Doppelganger
AUTHOR: Le Doppelganger

"Resting with my eyes closed is the only thing I can think, or want to do. If I look out of the cell, the light makes me see images. Spots dance before my vision. Even with my eyes closed, I still see the light. It permeates everything. I tried pulling my shirt over my head, but it was no use, the light still filters through. Even the back of the cell offers no escape any more. My retinas retain the never waivering light, no matter what I do."



Without a Title
AUTHOR: Ela

"Sometimes I even thought that someone is painting thru me, sometimes only to make a mess of my painting, and smile with a weird mischevious sense of humour. "what a joke", I hear the silent voice in my head "and she let me do it""



Entropy
AUTHOR: Jadecham

"It may be out there still
for all I know.
Drifting toward it's destiny.
An unsubstantial ball of soapy film.
It contains nothing
and is contained by nothing.

Like human souls.
On the point of bursting
though not yet bursting.
Unsure what shape to take
but finally taking the only shape their natures will allow. "



Twin Things
AUTHOR: Janice

"It was her wish to be cremated and scattered to the wind. The scattering part hasn't happened yet. My brother, one of the people who found her when she died, promised to carry her ashes out to sea on one of his fishing trips. She would like that."



Wordsmith Extraordinaire
AUTHOR: Jill Terry

"Following his lead, in the hope of arriving at a plateau of understanding that will satisfy the yearning that lingers and torments her soul; she has distanced herself, just as he. For as many times as her heart lay unveiled before him, his remains locked away, hidden from her desperate grasp, as he would have it be. And still she knows for naught; why he will not let her see."



Writing Down the Words
AUTHOR: Pauline Clarke

"On the northwest wall of my little cottage hangs a large gilt-framed mirror. It is round and slightly convex, so that if you peer into it, your face appears distorted. It used to hang above the fireplace in the house where I grew up, reflecting our daily comings and goings. I could stand in the kitchen doorway and see in duplicate my father in his green chair, my mother at the kitchen sink, and myself, dishtowel in hand, watching us all in the mirror."



The Synchronicity of Indeterminacy
The Indeterminacies of Synchronicity
AUTHOR: Indeterminacy

"Ruby had just seduced a rock. It was a sight to see, the way she'd sauntered up to it, placed hands on the creviced gray surface, and dug her fingernails into the stony flesh. The rock couldn't take it. Cracks began to show. Pebble dust shot into the air. But after a few token tremors it settled into a tame state. Now Ruby could do anything she wanted with the mineral formation: mount it, or mold it like clay into esoteric shapes."



Meaningless
AUTHOR: Michael U

"This seashore offered nothing but solitude. Eleanor saw the ocean as a frustrated entity, making insubstantial attempts to overtake solid ground, weeping shell fragments and kelp. Her empathy with its dilemma ran deep, for she was filled with the same need, both motivated and defined by desire and failure. When Eleanor came to the seashore, she had intended to surrender herself into its waves."