Tag Archives: scene

Cosmic Band-Aids

The coalescing Seattle twilight was an interplaying illusion of dusk and haze, warm colours replacing the pastel skylines, only to be painted over by the deep indigo eventide. The local rustic town café was already closing up, and they barely had time to finish the last bites of their chocolate bonbons and sip the remaining drops of their hazelnut vanilla frappé, before the intermittent barista ushered them out—quite literally, with a tremulous hand and an apologetic jilted demeanour. Now they stood outside the establishment in introspective reverie, dimmed bronze sodium streetlight the only solitary light source that resiliently pierced through the caliginous melancholy.

She was a blushing rose, liquid and pale, every infinitesimal detail somehow magnified to be remarkably interesting. Fragrance of baby’s breath and frankincense, posture of a regal and sophisticated monarch, delicate face as that of an angel’s glimpse of paradise, personality of an intricate vintage lock and a million exploding suns. Her companion, admittedly, was a person of less enigma, yet was still a character of significance, an oakwood branch, roughly-hewn and intense, simple yet charismatic. That svelte and cheeky-looking fellow had untidy coffee-tint hair, a discursive ironic smirk, an insouciant slouch, and a steely glint that, more often than not, signalled trouble.

As the fog and the regent shadows further intensified, the pauses and discomfited silence between them further attenuated. Moments passed. Her candyfloss-pink sundress fluttered like a jaded butterfly as she tucked a frayed bookmark behind her seashell ear, and her taciturn companion watched her intently, like an engrossed pawnbroker. Without permission, he began to remove his worn tan overcoat and gingerly placed the article over her cool shoulders, still warm and cosy by his own body heat. Flustered by the uncalled attention, she turned away to brush a stray raven hair back into her gossamer tufted bun, and lost grip of her book of poems, fragile pages yellowed and dogeared with age. Sylvia Plath’s ancient anthology dropped with a soft thump right side up, opening uncannily on the centre page containing Mad Girl’s Love Song, and both bent down and fumbled clumsily to pick it up in haste.

Fingers tangled. Glances exchanged. Blue eyes collided with green. Hands clenched. Throats choked. Hearts skipped. Breaths hitched. Souls shattered. Their blueberry-strawberry swirl ice cream melted absently like calligraphy on the pavement. The book now lay abandoned and forgotten, its unspoken poetry dancing alongside the breeze. No words were whispered. None were necessary. Overhead, the last of the brimstone shades faded away, and incandescent stars splashed the darkness of the falling sky. Below, firework eyes showered sparks, and skins intertwined. Witnessing it all, hiding behind the wisps of pewter clouds and overlooking the nocturnal planet, the glowing moon quaintly smiled.

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Stargirl and the Rocket Lights

You are a curiosity, or a mental case, as some called it rather crudely and dismissively, and you knew everyone noticed. But they didn’t care, and neither should you. One day, you impulsively proclaimed, whilst balancing on the top of a redwood tree branch, that disappearing acts never got old, so you said goodbye to your squirrel friend, clambered down the tree hurriedly, and dashed home. You burst into your room with a loud door slam, gathered up your paraphernalia, grabbed your half-full rucksack dotted with strange pins and souvenir keychains, which was patiently waiting by your ramshackle oakwood cabinet, and began haphazardly shoving various motley things inside. Once you were finished cleaning up and made even more of a mess in the process, you quickly plastered a teddy bear print band-aid on your cheek from where the rough wood accidentally scratched and left a thin red mark, clumsily tied your DIY pinstriped Keds’ purple and green shoelaces, stretched out—as if competing in a marathon—on an abandoned Twister board on your carpeted floor, and finally you left the house, chasing your dissolution without so much as a backward glance. The first part was easy. The next part was easier.

The nightwalking horizon was tinted virtually the same colour as your ripped stonewashed denim overalls, the reticulated stars were in implausible full burst and clearly visible, a myriad riot like the splattered black inkstains on your bohemian tie-dyed shirt, and the moon was shaded exactly and uncannily like your ivory silk flower leggings, the number of the craters perfectly aligned with the number of the frayed holes by your knees, the ones you tore yourself with zigzag safety scissors. The dreamy air tasted faintly like bubblegum ice cream, and the astral bodies were softly clicking into their designated places, a marvellous tableaux of God’s fanciful ethereal jigsaw puzzle. Nothing more was to be prepared; all you had to do was pass against the serendipitous turn of time. That particular task in itself was no difficult feat for your whimsical affinity. The other factor to consider was your destination. Invariably, it didn’t matter which bus you got on, if you were even waiting for a bus at all, for you have an overpowering ominous sensation within your heart that you’ll always inevitably end up on a wayward road, diverging on the intersection to nowhere. And in your own quote unquote words, as that one cliché that nobody says goes, signal for the universe and the galaxy will come.

Your vintage analogue Hello Kitty clock ticked sluggishly second by second, and the small candy floss pink lights by the side came to life and began to glow fervently as the hands struck exactly 8 PM. You had a lot of time to spend thereon and then, sitting prim and taciturn on the graffitied wooden bench, waiting for the longest forever. You intertwined scarlet camellias on your plaited geranium hair and held it in place with a gargantuan leopard-print scrunchie. You tapped your hands, plucked a few sweet and sour notes on your marmalade-orange ukulele, and hummed a Joy Division song melodically, and you laughed quietly when you flubbed the chorus with a splintered squeak. You counted the cheap glittery stars you stuck on your plastic journal even though you knew the number by heart, some microscopic yellow speckles transferring to your skin as you absentmindedly peeled one at the side with a polkadotted fingernail. You scribbled lines of guitar keys, and doodled literal intricate keys without paired locks, onto the slightly-torn cover page with a blueblooded space pen, and used the same pen to trace the wiry butterfly outline on your right ankle. You observed with childish wonder and twinkling heterochromatic dandelion eyes as prams, automobiles, taxis, and tallyho’s passed by you in an amicable whirlwind breeze and friendly engine revving. There were a billion tangible stars in this side of the dimension, just a little more than the glamorous stars shining on your notebook, and you can pluck each and every single one off their orbit. You had a lot of fun little preoccupations, and the time on your hands seemed almost eternal.

Time was up. When it seemed like the aberrant clocks hitched their breaths and you’ve done a thousand and one tasks to fill such a lacuna, finally, Hello Kitty’s spinning hour hand gingerly moved into its designated place. The moment it touched the notch and exactly as the pink lights began their little show, you tilted your chin until it was higher than your freckled button nose, and stared enthusiastically at the empty tranquil sky. As if on cue, your implausible carpool vehicle hurtled imperceptibly from beneath the atmosphere, burning the crepuscular firmament’s concrete shadows at light-year speed, and arrived with a dissuaded thump, to take you away from such a bland and diluted planet. Tucking a stray highlighted neon hair back in your pierced and heavily-ornamented ears, you cautiously replaced the overflowing tatterdemalion notebook back in your bag, bounced on your heels and stood up with lilting sneakered toes, and ceremoniously stepped into that rocketship invention calmly, without any nuance of surprise or astonishment. It seemed you would simply walk straight and be swallowed whole by the blinding flash, but at the last moment, you turned back at the dominating darkness and sent a quaint, fragile, almost palpable air-kiss flying from your painted ruby lips and painted dainty fingers onto the open space. The entire population of the world must have felt a faint zephyr graze their cheek softly at that very moment, but they were too naïve to even bother with noticing it. Yet you said your polite goodbyes, so it didn’t matter. You grandiosely waved a final farewell, the tattooed patterns on your arms spinning and dancing with pastel motion, and you smiled lazily, quite cryptically, as the metallic-gold doors closed in dénouement with a sibilant hiss and a burst of flourishing steam. The metaphysical vessel roared as it propelled into ignition again, shooting up into the sky immediately and billowing into evanescence out of peripheral view, and you were gone with it. Your wish was granted, and you permanently left behind the life you always tolerated with distaste, into a more interesting place with a better yesterday, and no one cared…except for one.

Stargirl, when you ran away and stole the cornflower moon with you from the midnight sky to elope, did you think no one would be interested? When you vanished and charmingly serenaded the sun into a retrograde motion, did you think no one would find out? Did you ever think, for a single heartbeat, that when your star, hiding in plan sight among millions of the other specks in the star-freckled sky, was quietly extinguished, I wouldn’t even notice?

I out of all people would hate to admit such a fact, but for once in your extraordinary yet ephemeral existence, Stargirl, you were wrong.

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weeping willow tree

tiredness, the willow trees

outside are whispering for

quaint attention.

the night is young but i

am dosed with strychnine

and nitroglycerine

and evergreen on my lips—

and i ended up stumbling on

the porch steps and i

ended up sleeping among

the enveloping branches of that

weeping willow tree

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A Song in Your Death Scene

Have you heard the news that you’re dead?
No one ever had much nice to say
I think they never liked you anyway
Oh, take me from the hospital bed
Wouldn’t it be grand to take a pistol by the hand
And wouldn’t it be great if we were dead!

~*~

Oh, just keep on dancing for me

Like blackened flies in a coronary

I would try to trade in all my tricks

But sobriety was never really my niche

The doctors called, they said you’re crazy

Can I strap you down in your gurney?

Shotgun shells taste as good as the pills

Both prescriptions are set for the kill

And we, and we, can end up dead

While laughing in our hospital beds

As the bandages start to stain with red

And we, and we, can both end up wed

.

I aimed for profound, that’s the latest trend

Dear, how was that fender that you bend?

No time to be Plato if my veins are drained

Where’s the sense when I’m getting maimed?

The doctors called, they said a maybe

But I ain’t counting my stars yet, baby

Beating hearts feel as good as a stab

But I guess that’s what it means to love

And we, and we, can end up dead

While crying into dehydration instead

No one had any hope left anyways

I never even had much cute things to say

.

The cuts are burning slowly deeper within

Didn’t I have what you call a proper system?

Cheap affairs cheering for kindred spirits

My face plastered on cartons of missing milk

The doctors called, they said to pack it up

Intermission’s over kid, it’s high time to stop

Intensive care feels like a vulture salvaged

Cool my organs well for their personal storage

And we, and we, can end up dead

Bayonet ourselves in the goddamn head

Time for the marionettes to take a final bow

We’ll make it through this hell somehow

.

As the last night starts to get younger

And the sun turns into a distant stranger

Make some way for the crash test dummies

Death has a deadline, oh fine, we’re in a hurry

The doctors called, they’re asking for money

I swear it wasn’t meant to turn this bloody

Coffin velvet doesn’t feel too uncomfortable

So lie back in ease, we have an eternity more

And we, and we, can end up dead

Let’s toast canticles of hemlock and lead

Shit, why even bother to wail and resist?

Hellfire ain’t bad, once you get used to it

.

Let’s make the most out of being deceased

When you’re emaciated, you can’t be pissed

So shut your mouth and don’t be so jet set

There’s a lot of demented fun to be had yet

The doctors lied, but who cares what they said?

Oh complications this and that, caught red handed

Failing feels like a stethoscope straight to the neck

I’d be complaining, but I’m too busy being a wreck

And we, and we, and we, darling we will end up being dead

I wanna leave young, guess that’s why hospitals are invented

Existing’s a joke anyways, nothing will matter anymore, I collected

Life’s so fun when we, when we, when we’re already all fucking dead!!

~*~

And in my honest observation
During this operation
Found a complication
In your heart, so long…

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Rainy L.A. Noir

I would sacrifice anything come what might
For the sake of havin’ you near
In spite of the warning voice that comes in the night
And repeats—how it yells in my ear…

~*~

Sweet coffee steam and cigarette smoke curling, interlacing in intricate patterns, at her soft delight

As her puckered lush ruby lips once talked optimistically of the taut horizon of New York skylines

Her caramel eyes glazed dreamily as she got caught in the monochrome noir of stormy LA nights

Her cascading lemon blonde hair like fallen hay as she huddled under the soggy newspaper’s smudged bylines

.

Living life in a suffocating office cubicle, rented apartment in the shady parts of lower downtown

Wearing restricting monochromatic suits and staring sullenly at paperworks with a frown

Bumping against hard brown briefcases and slipping her tall stilettos on fallen trilby hats

A devil in the city of angels, living life in a labyrinthine maze, no way out, with her fellow windup rats

.

Is it such a big crime, she pondered blearily, to wish and vie for something just a little more?

Than dingy old diners, dusty sweltering pavements, and hunting inside thrifty dark dime stores?

Sitting in a vinyl booth, broken neon “OPEN” sign flicking; greasy barkeep and regulars tactlessly staring

Fellow jaded sunken eyes probing her petite form, pervading, conspiring, rudely judging

.

Her five AM weeknights are spent hiding, clutching a bottle of Old Fitzgerald in the dirty back alleyways

Gazing with bloodshot eyes at the midnight skies melancholically, with filthy grey smog they were laced

The smug smiling moon was missing, the stars flickered back farewells, shimmering faintly like her dim hope

And like her monotonous arid soul, they also found themselves lost in the hazy chokes of this dismal city’s Cimmerian smoke.

~*~

Don’t you know, little fool, you never can win?
Use your mentality, wake up to reality…

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