Tuesday, March 3, 2009
One of us, she saw the sea for th first time ever in Manipal. The trip was fun. We walked and jumped and spoke and ate and travelled. I had a weird feeling standing at the brink of the sand dispersing in water and was so tempted to write. No camera could pan the whole sky, the sea up till the horizon and the stretch of white sand that my eyes were feasting on. Blue wisps of liquid hit my white pearly walls. Plastic, oil and sand were gracing my scalp cream. Rub some slick ash on the border of my vision, the Sun has already friend my pink, deep golden. Smoothen the waves and curves of supple margarine bosom,brush red mud off my soles and wave my hand to little clusters of tadpoles. I breathed air. I had fun!
I sit clawing, scraping at the blue flakey walls of your skin,right where your spine does a sudden curve and changes to opaline, hissing green in time when you trigger the sequence even without poking a lash. I cannot bear the ecstatic, cathartic chewing noises from father's mouth mixed with wet fingers on my shirt. Let me ululate into this tender ear of yours and generate low frequency waves like the drone of a blue scooter, the rattle of a cottong grey cloud, the biting and chewing of your brown hair by copper moonlight.
Cut me up, slightly, by each grain like a red watermelon's womb and make an eight on the peach with the tip of my finger before it punctures a hole. Create more fury by dipping finger in the vermillion tube. Rub the paint, smear, smudge and rough it up against the skin texture. Pour some oil, breeze through a bucket balancing on dead curls of fibre and mosquito legs dismantled near the drain. Do the yoga of my unstable wants and grin with me. Get up, its morning.
We are free, from jealousy.