Frankenstein's monster...

Brutal imaginings
make their way into
my consciousness.
Sensation reverberates;
Blinding, Putrid, Bitter.
A final clang signals the winding hour;
I turn to clay; grey and cold.

The villain that hovered
as an image,
a formation of
words
and paper,
a scrawl of ink and graphite,
and yes,
someone elses dreams,
dashed-

Is a fluid vision;
a Flesh and Bone
Reality.

I feel like Frankenstein.
Please hold the champagne, though.

A lump born in the throat
falls into the
ulcer-ed pit,
heaving with
the knowledge.

Realisation
sinks
in:

So,
They do exist.
Beyond
my Wildest
Imagination.

sPiced chOcolate caTastrophe

Chocolate oozes from the pot.

Melting desires, heaving at boiling point

in a restless fit of ecstacy.

Sweetness seethes over the edges,

And the aroma of chilli from the spice-makers palette

rises into the smoke above the mass

of now burnt delight.

The Food of the God's

is reduced to a darkened glory

of cocoa and ashes and

bellowing clouds announcing only catastrophe;

a fitting memorial to the

demise of a masterpiece

of spiced

chocolate

coal.


** note: Theo-bromide is an active ingredient in chocolate that translates as 'food of the gods'. i couldnt resist. not the chocolate, but the reference. the rest of its hardly sweet.

"we are too vain to die"

roses are red, like the blood in my eyes;

violets are blue, bruised, bashed, broken as i am.

sugar is sweet; the taste of saliva and the chocolate in my mouth that hasn't been swallowed...

but life with you; a guilt edged sword making its way down my back and up again,
the tip pointing precariously towards that soft skin at the back of my neck;

waiting. to boomerang, and then to take the plunge.





ok the above was just a play on words, really.... using the already over-used roses-are-red quatrain. i am in the middle of editing my manuscript for the umpteenth time and my protagonist pain must be poured out here so that it doesn't burn a hole in my skin. so there. thats done.

first and foremost title credit goes to freelance hero. it's these words that, although gleaned from arb chat, got the wordy juices flowing. simply put, what occurred to me is that, ego is our canon of survival and transient life, but it's also what stands in the way of the soul's yearnings and wishes to reach that Closeness to a Higher Power in whatever way one might make Him out to be.

it is true, though. indeed, we are too vain to die. i can't disagree with those words. death is far easily seen as the fore-written event that we will make our way towards. He who made must unmake. it won't be of our own accord. but I am wondering about self-destructive tendencies in other walks of life... or even in this dance between life and death. we're a bunch of narcissists really. there's little choice in denying it. and so the space for vanity is further exploded. little wonder there!

White Oleander

I am reading the novel at the moment; and am totally engrossed by the author's wield of metaphors, depth of characters and fine play of believable/unbelievable scenario's. Will review it soon. In the meantime... Here's a trailer of the major motion picture version...

dust off your hands... it will be done

2009

hello

what will you have?

a cup of tea? with lemon and ice?

or a bag of flour to bake your own cupcake, perhaps?

i have nothing to serve, you see...

you're an unlikely newness

raking the same glory from the days gone by

a bit too quickly for my liking, i say

and a bit too slow

if it counts that

there's a war crime or two

happening in some part up north

i don't know exactly where

just that

its not okay

because those babies i heard in my dream

weren't actually in combat

the lollypop that got splattered with blood

was just fresh out the wrapper

gosh

the baby was fresh out the wrapper!

but they said they were bombing

an area of armed combatants

(with lollypops - red ones!)


so what will it be?

a glass of ice water?

a dash of tequila?

on the rocks... and the rubble

underneath which

lies a mother and her two children

the third one is just

a

splattered

mush of flesh.

doesn't count.


it's just a matter of

ashes to ashes,

dust

and clay

to dust.

white phosphorous will make sure of it!

dust off your hands. it will be done.


happy new year.

we can wait for FIFA's act,

but the games have already begun.

short stories in six sentences

I am really into this number six thing. So much so that I have tried the Six Sentences or 6S challenge. I have a profile (yes one more thing to maintain, and have two new posts). But because its writing, and more writing, its all good.

http://sixsentences.ning.com/profile/ShafinaazHassim

The End.
He kissed her forehead. It said goodbye. She opened her eyes to a dark room and the sound of the heart monitor beeping. Her vitals were almost okay, but she remembered last night. One minute they were on the highway, singing along to their honeymoon song. Next thing she remembers is the flash of light, the blur of glass and metal, the stench of blood and the white sheet being pulled over his body on the wet tarmac.

Burning Memories.
It was crazy to think that she could do it, but it played in her head for ten hours in the darkness. The gleam of silver; the smell of flesh burning. When she finally did it, it seemed all too familiar. First she stabbed him; fourteen times for good measure. Then she burned the bed, and the house around it, so that the memory of the monster could go up in smoke. That's when she saw it: her freedom rising out of the ashes, a victorious phoenix.

Experiments... Writing in 2nd person..

You're gloved and masked. You hold the warm heart in your hands. You can never really tell the exact moment when you made the decision to avenge your father's killer. But the adrenalin and the intent seem to feed off each other. Like that time when the desparation for justice surged to a point where every barber with a knife in hand would excite you to this gleeful sin. And the time when the sounds in the local butchery made you seeth with a new plot. And that very first time when your knife tasted the flesh of the man in the antique 'dagger collectors' store. You remember clearly now, the day after your seventh birthday. And the inspiration of that knife in a gloved hand, that drew blood from your father's stomach. From his heart. And from your heart.