– All this confused fire and fury busy laminating the luxurious sheen on things-as-they-are
letting the festering sore impale its gory fingerprints on the shed that overlooks the lantern that lights up the corner in the the nook of that little place you would like to call home.
– The fairy tales have now begun to sprout and deliver their payload. Which monsters would you care to feel breathing down your back? Which nightlamp would you hold to fend off the aura of creepiness that you must slay must slay?
– Clever little footnoes that remind us that this day is but only past another tender one in the making, forged in the fury of iron factoids that provide the glue to nebulous flights of fancy which otherwise you would hold on to as if there were nothing truer.
– So you seek to stir the unshaken or slightly shaken? So you seek to make the blue palatable to the unseen red? Or vice versa? Little does it matter which, for the red will undo the wine that is extracted, and the blue will transcend the sky in that tiny moment where you stand corrected, asserted, expressed.
– How much more maya will the mystic bring as baggage today? The whirling spoof is now a gel that lays on thick on your eyes comforting for a while keeping the light away from the innards of your tentacles that yearn to reach out.
(Havelock bungalow, Colombo, Sri Lanka; August 9, 2013)