He has nothing to sing about, nothing
To write—his dreams are all of dust.
He fills his journals with mad denunciations
And colors their faces with jade.
The works he weaves are women worshipped,
Naked, and sadly aware of their glory
The women and he have stale sex and beer
Trying—and failing—to revive their dead hopes.
He sits, the image of bitter youth.
She breezes in the sunlit class, chattering-blathering-yammering
Joy. Her eyes, how they sparkle, blaze with passion
For the world and life she says still believes in.
She gives a blinding metal smile as she giggles,
And her slight plumpness does not mask her light.
Blindingly oblivious of her beauty
She seems, and just as aware of the ways of the world.
She needs a keeper, or so he first thinks.
They sit together, the boy and the girl.
He is captured by the pictures she painted,
Of hope and dreams and great make-believes.
The sour taste in his mouth is getting sweeter,
And in spite of himself, he believes anew.
And she laughs at his jokes, though cruel they may be;
Of his pessimistic view, she’s extremely uneasy. Naïve,
She allows him to touch her,
In fleeting hugs and gestures.
Soon he’ll assume it is love at first sight.
But she’s not as innocent as she seems—
Her glass is half-empty. The veneer of cheer
Hides an angst-ridden heart—
And her eyes sometimes age an eon, or two.
She’s fully aware of his growing ardor,
Annoyed at his cynical jibes.
She’s far from the perfect princess he imagines,
And he’s in no way her knight-errant.
So ends the fairy tale of boy and girl.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Boy Met Girl
Monday, March 12, 2007
Period
It’s burning white vision bursting at the tops of my eyes.
It’s nausea, shivering and plunging at ten thousand feet. Pulsing, pounding pressure, starting from the low centre of my body and radiating downwards until I can’t move, can’t do anything but lie limply on the bed. Every step taken is an epic battle in itself. Cold sweat becomes rivulets pouring down my spine.
Considering this happens once a month, it’s shocking how we’re considered “the weaker sex.”
Monday, October 30, 2006
The Workout
The room is bare and still, waiting for a life to saturate it with character--perhaps pictures marring the perfect blankness of the walls, or maybe clothes and shoes strewn haphazardly on the wooden floor. But no books crease the folded bedsheets, and dust decides to linger in the corners.
She enters, carrying nothing in her hands but a music player. The door is locked. Gauzy white curtains shield the room from the world. It's safe to begin.
A button is pressed, and music soars into the room. The room gasps and spins. A pirouette, a leap, a moonwalk and suddenly it no longer staid green-and-white.
It is in the arms of a gallant Spaniard with fire in his fine dark eyes as they samba through the night.
It is fighting red-coated men, armed with only a cutlass and a heart of valor.
It is dressed to the nines, swinging and boogieing amongst country-club peers.
It is slowly shedding its skin, lace and leather and string, feeding on the excitement of lonely, hungry eyes.
The music stops.
She wipes the sweat off her brow and looks about the room with a wistful kind of sadness. The door thuds closed behind her, and it is ivory and mint once more.
The room is bare and still.
