domestic disturbances

the headband, swarthy and lemony
has painted designs of trees,
 rotating
violently in an invisible breeze
from some unknown tempest
in an unfamiliar dimension.

the picture,
frozen in time
a fist clenched
a scowl held
for eternity.
in the acrylics.

-Pamplemousse

three spoons

three spoons lying on the table
all identical, all different.

rusty from the years of solitary confinement on the shelf,
they are ready.

the first spoon:

the fog from the sighs of lilacs
it contains the smoke of the mind.
one tastes it in odd places
the gas station ladies' room
during a large assembly

it is a pleasure to feel the fumes burst into your mouth
and fill you will verdant thought and emotions.

it comes in unpredictable moments of peace.


the second spoon:

a paste of toads and doorknobs
it is the moment of shock.
not surprise, but shock.
this sudden punch in the stomach can be good.
but no one likes to be shocked, breath becomes scarce
sweat becomes present
and the mind goes blank

the acrid taste fills the mouth for just an instant.


the third spoon:

a liquid of metal and fungi
it is that moment of self-realization.
you become aware of yourself.
so difficult to describe,
it can be good or bad.

you feel yourself breathing
you blink and comprehend that you can control those windows to the world
an alien sensation fills you

and you either feel child-like wonder
or unwilling emptiness

-Pamplemousse

empty journals rotting in my drawers

time and time again
under many a different mindset
i have attempted to start a journal.
however, my inherent obsession with including the minutest detail,  the urgency of feeling that each second of my day must be chronicled, comes because i don't know what is important.

so i must include everything.
this philosophy of describing my meals and the ghastly skirt of my second-to-last least favorite female teacher is an unfortunate one.  i do not know how to distinguish the amusing from the meaningless, the meaningful from the idiotic.  my life is a riddle, a sudoku box (devilishly difficult) that i still can't solve to a level of satisfaction.

do i have a good life?  i suppose i do. i have parents, nice ones at that.  a brother that is terrific in his way.  do i feel joyous in my niche?  in this beehive of Being?  i would say that i feel unfulfilled. at times, monotonous motion dots more aptly describe day-to-day activity than a flowering descriptive passage.  perhaps that is why i have trouble.  i know i describe something uninteresting, that i do not care about.  this feeling in the seventh (or ninth) layer of my subconscience manifests itself and sinks through the stacks of paper towels that make up my mind.  maybe i need Glad.  it seems to soak up inconvenient liquids rather efficiently.  glad is what i must find.  glad is what i wish i was.

or do i?  isn't being unfeeling the best?  watching the world spin round its axis in a cold, logical way, shooting radars from those eyelashes, cataloging what is perceived.  i suppose it is, isn't it?  being sad and depressed, and lonely, is fulfilling for an afternoon each fortnight or two.  and then mixed in with glee, excitement, heart-pounding-joy that is unexplainable mixed in thrice or...frice (four-ice).  i suppose that is best.  i suppose that is best.

-Pamplemousse

triangles

His eyes stream mahogany leather stained with crushings of petal juice.

I don't like the hungry feeling that I get from his overly arched eyebrows.  There is a reason that The Moslems had arches.  how else could their sky high turbans brush the bottom of Allah's chin stubble, letting his wisdom rain down in the form of dead skin cells?

His eyebrows have no desire to catch the wisdom in the dna of God,
raining down to earth as pine needles from a cumbersome Christmas tree.
and his sneering mouth shouts obstreperously of his education, his breeding.

breeding is for wild beasts and aristocrats, have you noticed?

the gold leafing on your diary page merely masks the scrawl of your pen, allowing it to seem beautiful.  beautiful it is not, is an ogre dressed in women's clothing now daisy buchanan?
white as his pupils may be, his liver is yellow with the bile that has bubbled from his suppressed snottiness.

Drink the elixir from the ivy outside your bay window with the grecian statues on either side, and allow it to elevate your mind to a pedestal.  yes, you are now better.  a more perfect creature.
in your own raving mad fantasy, you are king.

-Pamplemousse