magician

magician picks one

lemming from the pack

throws it way, way back

.

lemming sails a while

rides the breeze

kisses the clouds with ease

.

end of that bit of time

it comes crashing down

leg crushed head split skin torn

.

runs again rushing

towards certain salvation

sad for the f-ed up magician

.

waiting room

stale smell of chloroform

slither hurriedly into the nostril

chased by different forms of fear

hatching out of thin shells

.
sweaty palms make abstract art

on crumpled reports, frayed files

on which stick random thoughts

faded dreams some little lies

.
multiple projections scream

alive, livid on the wall

re-wind re-write re-shoot

re-play another dream

.
time swings slowly

each wait their turn

as her long fingers dip deep

picking the next number from the urn

.

tarantula

tarantulas are spiritual.very.they have transcended the routine mundane. they swing. they rock. they make love. and then they eat you up. yummmmm. just like that. just so coz you are good in bed. and you taste yum. and well, she is hungry after good sex. always. so i stroke this pet T that i have. gently as she swings ever so softly in her web. the one that she wove between our minds and the pasts and those stubs of insanity that we hold so deep so dear so hidden. within us. so i pet this T that i love. who has suddenly popped up again and connected another strand of the web to my mind. it tickles and she moves gently. crawling sensuously over the crevices on my mind. arousing that restlessness. that little treasured insanity. and as my eyes lock her wide wide ones, that look of absolute innocence. insane innocence. and i stroke. long fluid skin-ever-so-gently-on-skin strokes. just to discover her again. to map her in my mind. not like a picture. but. like a dance. like the water that rushes between rocks after rain. and to reach the spots that i havent reached earlier. when ever i have touched her. with the long fingers of my mind. unbraiding the braided hair that only i can see. with the nails of my thoughts. rolling the balm squeezed from our words in my palm. massaging it gently on her back as she swings on the web. as she crawls on my mind. as she trickles the restlessness alive. and the clock ticks on. and she says. it's time to spread out the bed.