A Silly, Far-Fetched, Rhyming Rant

Out of the frying pan,
And into the fire.
The consequence of a half-baked plan,
Of unrealistic desire.

Making all sorts of claims,
“My tears can heal!”
Now I’ll have to change my name.
I’ll have to change it for real.

They want proof of my powers,
Of my healing tears,
We’ve been waiting for hours
Not a droplet appears.

Damn these womenfolk,
I can’t cry in front of them.
I’ll be the butt of every joke.
Wait. What about phlegm?

I’ll say, “You heard me wrong,
I’m a dude; a phoenix with pride,
I don’t cry, or break into song.”
And then I’ll take them ladies aside.

“It’s actually the phlegm that fixes all,
Every itchy, scratchy wound.
It even stops the worms, mid-crawl,
Especially handy when marooned.”

“The other guys are jealous
‘Cause tears are all they’ve got.”
And then the ladies’ll be all zealous.
I’ll ruffle my feathers, on the spot.

A casual ruffle, mind you,
Nothing unnecessarily fancy.
And I’ll throw in a burning-day demo too-
Just for that redhead, Nancy.

Maybe I’ll wink instead
But aren’t they passé, those winks?
How I wish I were dead!
Wait, I can’t die. Man this stinks!

I’m sure they’ll ask for proof.
And when I can’t cough it up
I’ll become “That good for nothing goof.”
I’ll be worse off than Bob, and he’s a schlup!

Eh! Screw the phlegm, and all the drama.
Screw the glorious undivided attention.
Screw the ladies (I wish!), I’ll be the avian Dalai Lama,
Once I’m done blaming it all on fluid retention…

So, no stupid frying pans.
And definitely no fires today.
No half-baked, bird-brained plans.
I’ll be a good little phoenix. Yay?

1. The topic said 'nonsense poetry'. I took that VERY seriously. Obviously.
2. I have nothing against phoenixes or any such magical creature. I was trying to write something that would work for both competitions...
3. I have nothing against "Bob"s either. Perhaps I was craving a palindromic name...subconsciously, of course.
4. Urban Dictionary.com tells me 'schlup' is actually a word, and not just a rare surname. I've used it to mean 'a lazy burden on society'.

Reservation For Two

He guided her into the apartment, all the while making sure that the scarf covered her eyes properly. He wanted everything to be absolutely perfect, and he had been looking forward to surprising her all week. As he steered her towards the dining room, she felt around with her hands, smiling inwardly every time she recognised a corner, remembering a moment the two of them had spent together in that particular part of the apartment. This was the night she had been waiting for the past two years.
He carefully untied the scarf, and as she took a moment to readjust her vision, innumerable candles were lit, one by one. She looked around the room slowly, eventually settling her gaze on his face. It was calm. He looked content.
“I’ll go grab us a couple of glasses and then we can get the evening started,” he said, as he walked towards the kitchen.
“A little drinking, a little conversation and then we’ve got reservations at that French place you love,” he continued.
The sound of cupboard doors being opened and closed was punctuated only by the clinking of expensive crockery. She was still staring off into the distance, with a smile fixed on her face. The vibrating buzz of his phone woke her out of her reverie. She decided to check if it was important, and absent-mindedly picked the instrument up. One look at the screen brought it all back.
He returned from the kitchen, with two wine glasses balanced delicately between his fingers. He started to make a joke when he noticed how white her face had suddenly become.
“You lied to me.”
“What are you talking about Marissa?”
He carefully kept the glasses on the table.
“I trusted you when you told me you’d stopped seeing her, and you decided that meant it was okay to lie to me. How could you David? I trusted you…”
“It’s not how it looks. I’ve told you a thousand times, she’s a patient. I can’t ignore her because you think we had some sort of fling. Now don’t let this ruin our evening. Please.”
He sounded exasperated, as if this conversation were something he’d had to deal with every single day of his life.
“So you think I’m overreacting. You think I’m making this entire thing up? Obviously she wouldn’t overreact right? It’s always been her. What was this evening, David? You giving me one good night before you left me for her?”
She was crying hysterically now, her voice becoming more hoarse with every word she screamed at him.
“Don’t do this sweetheart. You know I love you. You have to trust me when I say there is absolutely nothing going on between me and Anne. She’s just a patient. Come on now. Calm down. Please,” he said, “just calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down! Don’t ever tell me to calm down. You and I both know that she was the first woman in your life. I was the rebound girl, wasn’t I? And now you’ve realised she’s the one for you…”
She didn’t know what to do with her hands; she started alternating between running them through her short brown hair and tracing the curves of the crystal vase that sat on the table closest to her.
“Marissa, honey, you know I love you more than anything else in the world. Why are you doing this?”
“Shut up, David. Just shut the hell up.” She threw the vase at him as she screamed this. He managed to duck in time, and the vase crashed against the wall.
She looked around for a moment before chucking more expensive crystal-ware at him. He avoided her ever improving aim deftly.
“Why can’t you just be honest with me?”
“What do you want me to say, Marissa? Do you want me to admit I’ve been sleeping with her? I’ll admit it if that’s what you want. I slept with her. Are you happy now?”
He leaned against the window, rubbing his eyes methodically.
She walked up to him, slowly, steadily. Her approach had purpose, and she had regained her composure.
“You lied to me.” Her voice was monotonous. Her face betrayed no emotion any longer.
“I can’t trust you ever again.”
That half hour ended with a final crash. And then all was silent.

* * *

She started wiping down every exposed surface she could spot. While vacuuming the dining room, she started thinking about what she’d do next. Cleaning always helped her sort out her thoughts. Once she was satisfied with the way everything looked, she walked into the bedroom and got dressed. That lovely red dress David bought her for her last birthday would finally be worn today. She even had the pearls to match.
She walked out of the apartment building, smiling at the doorman. Philip had always been a helpful old man, and even today, he offered to hail a cab for her.
A few minutes later, she stepped out of the vehicle and found herself staring at the French restaurant David had brought her to for their first date. She’d always loved this restaurant.
While she waited at the bar to be seated, she started thinking about how she’d deal with Anne. A stern warning perhaps. No. That wouldn’t be necessary; not anymore. Just as she was trying to recall where David kept his patient files, the hostess called out for her.
“Maxwell. Reservation for two?”
She got up and walked towards the dining area with the perfect smile on her face. As she walked past the hostess, she quietly muttered, “I’ll be dining alone this evening.”

Best Laid Plans

Written for the weekly theme contest on IAW. This week's theme was 'Architecture'.

The last stretch of my journey began at the carved archway. An archway that boasted of exquisite craftsmanship, of trained artists, of glistening marble, and of ornate myths I was told to believe in. It was the last opportunity for me to reconsider my decision. It was the last physical landmark that separated my imprisonment from my freedom.

I walked on the cobblestone pathway that took me through that carved archway, through elaborately designed landscapes with grassy hosts waiting at exact intervals. I walked on the muddy trail that led me through towering greenhouses flaunting exotic flora, through pre-planned forests where everything dutifully did as it was told. I walked on gravel roads that guided me as I crossed perfectly quaint bridges, as I parted chlorinated pond water so pure one could drink it. I walked slowly, but steadily towards the beautiful mansion that would soon be my new home.

The mansion itself was, perhaps, the most magnificent sight of them all. Extending beyond anything the naked eye could mark as an edge or boundary, it had forced everything around it to bow down in submission. Every stone exuded a sense of control. Every gilded window invited you to peer in, but if you were brave enough to take up the offer, it seemed as if the window itself was judging you for falling prey to its enticements. These uncountable windows served to highlight the fact that there was only one door. One door that opened into the house, and then closed with a resounding finality, thereby making you the mansion’s next adornment.

I remember the days when I took sunlight, and fresh air for granted. I remember the days when I wished I had a roof over my head, and three meals a day. I remember the day I chose to serve this Lord over the one I truly believed in. I remember the day I chose luxury over freedom- the day I succumbed to the allure of this man-made hell.

Order

Another piece I was unable to submit, due to blasted time zones, and laziness. Oh well, this is why we have blogs. I haven't done any research, or reading, so this character and his habits are completely fictitious. I'm experimenting with sentence fragments, so if you do comment, mention if they work. Thanks.

No. Stop. Halt. We must restart. We must begin from the beginning. We must recommence. First we blink six times, three times for each eye.
One, two, three.
One, two, three.
Blinking is important. We must blink if we want to do this properly. We must walk to the washroom in nine steps. Not eight, not ten. Nine steps. Note to self, we must sterilize the washroom. In fact, we must do it now. And then we must restart. And then we must begin from the beginning again. And then we must recommence.
The washroom is clean. It is sparkling. And clean. No germs. None whatsoever. We are pleased. We must return to the bedroom quickly. Now, back to what we were doing. Back to what we were doing, in that exact, ritualistic and ordered manner. Exact, ritualistic and ordered manner - exactly 33 characters including the comma. We are pleased yet again. 33 is a good number. 3, 6, 9, 12, 15, 18, 21, 24, 27, 30, 33, 36, 39, 42, and 45 are also all good numbers. There are other good numbers, but these are the first 15. 15 is a good number. We would list more, but then it will no longer be 9:15 pm, and we will have to wait till it is 9:18 pm to restart. To begin from the beginning. To recommence.
First we blink six times, three times for each eye.
One, two, three.
One, two, three.
We can see everything. We must walk to the washroom in nine steps. We must walk to the clean washroom in nine steps. We must walk to the sterile bathroom in nine steps. We must remove the toothbrush from the shelf. We must remove the toothbrush swiftly. We must take care not to infect the toothbrush. We must then proceed to disinfect the toothbrush. Disinfect. 9 letters. 9 is a good number.
Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Side-to-side. Side-to-side. Side-to-side. 3 minutes on the left. 3 minutes on the right. 3 minutes on the molars in the upper jaw. 3 minutes on the molars in the lower jaw. 9:27 pm.
We must replace the toothbrush. The toothbrush must be positioned on the shelf. The toothbrush must be in its place. Everything in its place, just the way it should be. Order is good. Everything in its own place.
Nine steps to the bedroom. Those same nine steps. Left foot forward. Right foot forward. It's like a mesmerizing pattern. Mesmerizing pattern. 18 letters. 18 is a good number. The bed calls to me. No creases. No wrinkles. No crinkles. No wreases? No. We cannot just make up words. We cannot invent them. We must use words that exist. What if everyone started to invent and make up things? No. We cannot have that.
The yellow sheets. No creases. No wrinkles. Perfectly yellow. Perfectly smooth. Perfectly perfect. 3 steps to the bed. It is almost time. 9:29 pm. We must wait a minute. We must not rush things, or else we may have to restart. Everything has to be done in an exact, ritualistic and ordered manner. Yes, we agree. We must be patient. 9:30 pm.
We must climb onto the bed, carefully. No creases. No wrinkles. Perfectly smooth. Perfectly perfect. We must tuck the blanket underneath us. No corners poking out. A perfect cocoon. We must find the light switch now. Ah. There it is. Right where we left it. Right where we told it to be. Right where it is supposed to be. The light switch must come to us. Click. Now darkness. Click. Now light. Click. Now darkness. Click. Now light. One more darkness, and one more light. Then an extended period of darkness. Then sleep. Then tomorrow, and all the opportunities for perfection that tomorrow brings. Extended period of darkness. 24 letters. 24 is a good number. Perfect.
We must time this well. Both eyelids must collapse simultaneously, in synch. Synchronization. 15 letters. Left eye- ready. Right eye- ready. May the collapsing commence. Countdown. 30. 27. 24. 21. 18. 15. 12. 9. 6. 3. Now. Wonderful. Synchronization achieved. We are pleased. We are very pleased. We must now say goodnight to everyone. To the people who visit us everyday. To the people who don't visit us everyday. To the tables that keep us company. To the perfect yellow sheets. We must say goodnight to everyone. Goodnight everyone. We will meet you in the light. In the light of the morning. In the light that shoos away the darkness. Shoos. 5 letters. 5 isn't a good number. In the light that drives away the darkness. Drives. 6 letters. 6 is a good number. Perfect.
Before we forget, we must wish each other goodnight. Where's the civility when we don't wish each other goodnight. We're all we have.
Goodnight, Shadow.
Goodnight, Sir.

Promise

A promise that promises to be mine forever more
A promise that promises to remain unfulfilled...

The secrecy, the silence, the soothing symphony
Embraces of compliance, a humble soliloquy
In the folds of curtains, placating promises will dwell
Acutely uncertain of the assurances you sell
From the depths of the still air, your false odes still resounding
As you whispered that you cared, sincerity astounding
In my pillow's feathers, I search for your consolations
Against my will I'm tethered, I hide from these sensations
Kindling my blind faith in you, I cling to all that you were
Unaware of what you'll do- every promise now a blur.
I falter, I trip, I stumble; finding answers unknown,
Meaning hidden in mumbles. I know nothing's set in stone,
Yet I take comfort in your promises. Though lies they may be,
To me they mean that you bother trying; they mean you're with me.

Silhouetted, She Stands

Based on my interpretation of the Ezra Pound poem I have posted on here before.

In a crowded metro station, during the evening rush hour, the flickering tubelights illuminate all that is wrong with the public transportation system. Waves of passengers make their way around me. Women in suits and scarves, walk by briskly, avoiding my gaze. The men wear hats that leave the exact contours of their faces to the imagination of the beholder. That is all it is now, a crowded metro station.

I stand there, unable to move. Eventually, crowds become individuals, I hear footsteps that stand out from the collective clacking of expensive high heeled footwear. Faces are no longer incomplete sketches; the artist has finally managed to fill in the details and paint in the colours. He's probably all out of black paint. It feels like the world has passed me by in that moment. And yet, I stand there, unable to move.

My eyes wander aimlessly. An efficient and trained voice informs me of my train's arrival. The masses freeze; they're prepared to make a run for it. She is a sudden apparition of gold in the endless sea of black, in those faces, in those footsteps. A golden yellow glow, offset by her auburn hair. As I stare at her, the individuals coalesce again, into one crowd. She stands silhouetted against the dark masses. I blink and she's gone. The metro station is empty now, with no signs of the moments that have passed. My wait is extended. My eyes continue to wander aimlessly, searching for that apparition, for that silhouette.

Moonlight Sonata

(I have been listening to Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata for the past half hour, and I don't think I've ever felt this serene. Anyways, I was expressing what I thought the music meant to Petra on MSN...and then that kind of morphed into this. It's so far from perfect that perfect isn't even a dot in the distance, but it is definitely heartfelt. For those of you who haven't yet heard the beauty that is this song...here's a youtube link...)

The air is cold and dry, devoid of the comforting whispers one usually associates with it. Not even the ocean dares to disturb the song of silence. The crashing waves are muted; their invitations to the sand remain unheard. The moonbeams filter through our defenses, an innocuous spotlight. But the clouds object to this act, and promptly protect our solitude from the unwanted illumination. We are truly alone now, just you and me. No audience, no company. Just the refreshing loneliness.
We walk on the dark and desolate beach, and contemplate the meaning of life, reliving all the memories we cherish, remembering every smile, hug, kiss and love...
And we sigh because of how beautiful these thoughts are, and how they complete us in more ways than one. We wonder where the years have gone. We wonder how we let it all slip away from us. We wonder why the last farewell wasn't good enough. And then we remember the faces, we remember the touch. We walk slower, dragging our feet through the sand. We tighten our grip on each other and make quiet promises. And then the horizon seems to come closer. It is no longer unattainable. The end has neared, and departure is imminent. We come to a standstill. Eyelashes protest as real sights are exchanged for images of the mind. A solitary note is heard, piercing the emptiness momentarily. That one brave tear escapes the confines that bind my emotions. And I feel it all leave me. We turn to face each other. And we have nothing to say.
We leave the beach with wet feet, wishing the walk could have lasted a while longer...