Thursday, November 15, 2007

Night of the Phoenix

No love can
bind me down
I’m too old for that.
No fire can
burn me down
I’m too cold for that.
Pray, little soul
for, if the Sun should rise in the morn
I can grow back my wings
and fly and soar
above your

Thursday, November 08, 2007


The Sun forgot to rise in the morning. Inside the filthy cage I heaved, as the outside world bypassed or passed me by through the serpentine green road. No bystanders, except for a wingless dusty grey pigeon that had been eyeing me voraciously and the eyeless cat that held its paw on the bird’s tail.

The rib cage was brittle, yet, it was too strong for the bird to break in. My thousand legs stretched with an arthritic yawn as I swallowed in a millennium of anguish steeped in anger. No, please don’t call me Gregor Samsa. I am just a nameless entity dazed by unblinking stars, a distorted digital rendition of a long forgotten painting.

Somebody strummed a guitar in the distance, a confused clamour in g and d. It rose above the dark carbonised air and shattered into a thousand unreflecting mirrors. I tried adjusting the ID tag cutting into my amorphous body (what ID tag, all it had was my ex-designation and a hyphen in the blood group column) but shards of notes still hung by it, swinging and sighing in contempt.

As the dusty grey pigeon scrambled up to me, I clambered out onto the serpentine green road, into a busy sea of high heels. One press, one jab, one squish. My disoriented thousand legs settled down for a game of bridge with the now rising sun, oblivious of the journey or the destination.