Today: time spent trying not to let life happen while I was too busy doing other things!
Somehow, there was, in the back of my mind, the notion that I was certainly in the wrong place and definitely at the wrong time.
There is no replacement for the happy chatter of children eager to share their day, the peal of their keen and quick description; words stumbling over each other to describe the green car painted or the outcome of show-and-tell.
Today, I was definitely in the wrong place and certainly at the wrong time - and then I wasn’t…
ASJ Perera / 19 April 2012
Is each moment like the wind,
laying its warm or icy hands upon each soul before passing through?
Is it there and then gone? Or, is it like an hourglass,
Running a stream of sand, whose quantity is unknown?
If so, how many grains are left until the last?
If every breath is like these falling flecks of gold,
Where do they collect at hour’s end?
Perhaps each leaf of an enchanted tale animates our hours.
If so, are we our own heroes?
Or, will divine intervention imbue our good books
To send a saviour; an unassuming cameraman,
One who will capture ungainly moments in sepia tones.
Will we inhale his musky scent, while pasting each inky print
Into our albums? Will we peal with wheezing laughter
Later on, lapping sweet, reminiscent treats
And walk our fingers through these pages.
Will we ever hold a moment’s fullest worth?
ASJ Perera/ 4 April 2012
There they stood –
Nude patent three-inch beauties,
Backlit by white fluorescence.
Winking in the retail light;
I thought I was in love.
by their cocktail waitress form
Atop their cocky, creamy stems.
In my throat, glee bobbed up and down
As their cool patent pressed against my palm.
That night, their pale purity
Flushed now and then a deeper hue
On the balmy terrace.
Buttery bulbs of tulips lit the table.
Gilded strings of glowing cherry tubers
Hung over our heads,
Shuddering and juddering to
The breeze and jazzy pulse of Armstrong’s
Hooting horn blowing a hoolie
Inside; assailing the slick and chequered mirror-shine floor.
That harlequin Harlem haunt hid the gouges
Of each heavy stiletto scrape,
Each catty scratch, proclaiming lindy-hopping,
Bouncing buoyancy. Ella’s oaky tones smoke each
Pair of bending bodies till they wilt.
Beneath the subtle undulation of our white table cloth,
Those patent heels tip-tapped to the tip-top tick-tock.
Nude sling-backs strum the flagstones; glossy gloves
For silken toes that wiggle in their hold,
Winking in the heady night; I thought I was in love.
© ASJ Perera/ 1 April 2012
Each bite was sharp, as I remember:
Tiny teeth gnawing ferociously, harbouring
the greed that is bred into their instincts.
Their bodies glistened, swollen and bulbous.
I would’ve liked to hold one, struggling,
between thumb and forefinger -
and simply squash.
I imagined the round redness of its bottom
bulging under the pressure of what must seem
like giant pincers - then buckling.
Bursting like a blueberry, spurting
blue-black sweetness over my offending palm.
Caught red-handed? You could say it was;
At first immune to the growing map of bite marks
on my feet and ankles, I came to stark awareness
once the sticky mess was spilled. The stomping of my feet
shook their foundations, just as the chewing of their jaws
threw my balance; but I retraced my route.
Back on the verandah, surveying their resilience,
was I the victor?
ASJ Perera/ 17 March 2012
eleven eyes of yours
reflect themselves endlessly,
the countless remainder dreamily
at the sight of you—
that immaculate smile.
as you enter,
and affable man-whales alike
the former of desire,
the latter, of fulfillment.
one soft word
incites gathered masses to riot,
frightens nearby leviathans,
and stops a potential infinite
in its tracks.
Where are the caps you’ll press to your skulls,
With their visors as shields from midday laser beam rays?
And the caps you’ll fill in your guns, cool metal to palms,
Open cradle for shells, the capsules of mortality.
Where are the caps you’ll press to plastic
Cylinders of candy capsules, antidote to ailing flesh?
They radiate the call of remedy
To shaking hands, desperate for reprieve .
Preventative, pre-emptive, pro-active, reactive,
Combative, collective, eclectic, corrective…
They rattle like maracas to the rhythm of your wrist;
Eager tremors meeting grateful grasp.
Popping, bursting, small explosion.
Sedately covers calm conversion.
ASJ Perera/ 10 March 2012