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Rising damp
Winners we are not, do not ask thus. No winner am I, no winner was I ever. Is this sad to know? Is it?
But loser, losers art we all, those in whose eyes the retina red inside; those on whose palms a smear of the alphabets in black from the surface of a page in white otherwise; hangs the stitch loose on whose sweaters darned a thousand times - losers art they all when in hegemony of an urge intense, this paralysis they preach. Losers art they all to me!
"Where thy limbs?" I ask.
"When the loss", I scream.
On a mat blue the flow, this the flow of rivulet in cerise and cerise. I ceded with it too, oh Lord! I almost did.
Slow and slow the drag of sloth against the layers of my skin from within, thick the mucus jelly, grotesque the stench of the blood in me.
I almost did it, a step beyond the ledge me feet did ramble whilst a saunter was I captivated by. Thump, thump, thump, one step, two then, third the fall would have been; thwack, crack, thrash - third the fall would be.
See I them lying in stillness of the night like a static moon paralyses, the clouds drifting all around it in thick cream of black and grey.
Beheld I on this sight me fingertips on the pane of glass, my nails in extension to rip the fibres asunder. Rip, rip, rip when crack on the wood of the window sill.
Yet alas! A shiver on my fingers, from nerves the onset to apex of my nails jutting away and away the end - On my fingers the end. Quiver, oh this quiver runs through me like the downpour of colors from my scalp to toe on a cloudburst of a rainbow. Ah! I taste it all, I taste them all one by one - mauve lilac, livid azure as from a night sky in the summer, red red the madness in me when on my tongue the violent purple!
So much in me, yet this lethargy in viscous froth as catarrh on the walls of my lungs!
A shake of the thumb then, an amperage in tonnage atop the strings of my nerves, then a quiver again.
Why the halt? A loser were they to me, and am I, am I, am I a loser you see.
Hence my escapade downtown, alleys beside me feet, the grasses grow tall against the concrete, and along the cement am I, this seepage of liquid plaster in me.
When the halt so? When the halt to it all? A soupcon of a movement not in body on the shank, shakes the soul underneath the skin of a drapery I wear, I want to wear - a stillness, a cessation of all motion in me I reach slowly and slowly so only to sight my limbs, to my eyes yonder lay my limbs. Alas! Oh alas! My dear mother! Alas! Alas! Oh thought who asks if the winner am I, merely if a word on through my teeth.
When did I stop like this?
© Ananya
But loser, losers art we all, those in whose eyes the retina red inside; those on whose palms a smear of the alphabets in black from the surface of a page in white otherwise; hangs the stitch loose on whose sweaters darned a thousand times - losers art they all when in hegemony of an urge intense, this paralysis they preach. Losers art they all to me!
"Where thy limbs?" I ask.
"When the loss", I scream.
On a mat blue the flow, this the flow of rivulet in cerise and cerise. I ceded with it too, oh Lord! I almost did.
Slow and slow the drag of sloth against the layers of my skin from within, thick the mucus jelly, grotesque the stench of the blood in me.
I almost did it, a step beyond the ledge me feet did ramble whilst a saunter was I captivated by. Thump, thump, thump, one step, two then, third the fall would have been; thwack, crack, thrash - third the fall would be.
See I them lying in stillness of the night like a static moon paralyses, the clouds drifting all around it in thick cream of black and grey.
Beheld I on this sight me fingertips on the pane of glass, my nails in extension to rip the fibres asunder. Rip, rip, rip when crack on the wood of the window sill.
Yet alas! A shiver on my fingers, from nerves the onset to apex of my nails jutting away and away the end - On my fingers the end. Quiver, oh this quiver runs through me like the downpour of colors from my scalp to toe on a cloudburst of a rainbow. Ah! I taste it all, I taste them all one by one - mauve lilac, livid azure as from a night sky in the summer, red red the madness in me when on my tongue the violent purple!
So much in me, yet this lethargy in viscous froth as catarrh on the walls of my lungs!
A shake of the thumb then, an amperage in tonnage atop the strings of my nerves, then a quiver again.
Why the halt? A loser were they to me, and am I, am I, am I a loser you see.
Hence my escapade downtown, alleys beside me feet, the grasses grow tall against the concrete, and along the cement am I, this seepage of liquid plaster in me.
When the halt so? When the halt to it all? A soupcon of a movement not in body on the shank, shakes the soul underneath the skin of a drapery I wear, I want to wear - a stillness, a cessation of all motion in me I reach slowly and slowly so only to sight my limbs, to my eyes yonder lay my limbs. Alas! Oh alas! My dear mother! Alas! Alas! Oh thought who asks if the winner am I, merely if a word on through my teeth.
When did I stop like this?
© Ananya
