by Rochelle Del Borrello
There is a wishbone stuck in your throat
it sits lodged between your vocal cords
amazingly it does not hamper your voice
in fact, it creates your voice
With every breath, you inhale desirously
ambition to replenish your want for success
The Wishbone absorbs your breath the split bones
two halves pluck you chords
not choking just your voice singing
with the expectation of ongoing expression
Such is the mysterious awe of the performance
the wish expressed through your voice.
My dirty little pleasure has always been reality t.v. I've been obsessed ever since Big Brother burst onto the small screen in the early 2000s with its first reality tv social experiment by isolating strangers inside a house and away from the outside world.
At the time, Big Brother was a revolutionary concept. These days it's a tired and rehashed model after seeing endless versions of the same thing from BB, Survivor, The Bachelor, Jersy Shore, Love Island and many more. Today we have celebrity versions of many, which low-grade celebrities use to revive their average careers. And we now have new stars that have come out of the reality genre.
It never ceases to amaze me how people are becoming famous for nothing and building their careers from nothing other than their personality, character and brand. It seems to have been a tried and tested model for reality tv stars to start in the world of tv, build a formidable following on social media and branch out to create their products to sell.
My reality of choice used to be Jersy Shore, which saw a group of Italo Americans, each with very different personalities, all in the same house with copious amounts of alcohol and outings to nightclubs to create total utter chaos. The social experiment focused on a specific cultural group with classic stereotypes and personalities. It was all contrived; many of the participants weren't even Italian. But the result is a group of people who have become famous for socialising, getting drunk, having random sexual encounters and violent confrontations.
The group has matured; they all have families; one went to jail for tax evasion, yet his comeback journey from alcoholism has been continued on his social media. There have been spin-offs and several reunions. The ongoing stories of these reality tv characters continue on social media today. It is a mind-boggling process. Their strong public personalities have made people fall in love with them.
For me, the attraction of reality tv is pure curiosity; at first, I wanted to see if there were people who fit the Guido stereotype in America. Then I got sucked in by the various characters and the cheesiness. Watching bad reality tv is a way of switching off from the outside world; there is no thought, no substance, just something so bad you cannot help yourself. It sucks me in without realising it, just like mindlessly scrolling through social media. Before you realise it, you've been scrolling for hours, and it's already after midnight.
The reality tv trend of fame is continually being confirmed through other entertainment platforms beyond television. The massive audiences of top YouTubers, Instagrammers and TikTok stars are much larger than many tv networks. It is exciting to see the potential to create a career out of nothing other than an idea or a personality.
People are currently creating stardom and wealth on their terms; the power is no longer in a studio system or TV network. Heck, you don't even need a publishing house to become a best seller or a production factory to make and sell your merchandise or fashion product. It's a fantastic time of great potential and creativity.
Yet there is an inherent danger in this potential, too; the world of influences, pseudo-experts and false prophets setting themselves up as specialists in their field without any real education or experience makes it a lot like the wild west. There is no policing and controlling content, and there is no way to draw the line between entertainment and marketing.
The most sophisticated version of reality tv has to be the current season of the Kardashians. The new series builds upon the success of 20 seasons of Keeping up with the Kardashians, which established the family's personality, social media presence and business. A carefully crafted reality program focused on each family member's personality and perceived controversies within their personal lives are what gave them so much success.
The first season of the Kardashians seems ever more contrived and manipulative than any of the Keeping Up series; in fact, the new series focuses more on the individual family members' careers and businesses.
In the first few episodes, we've already seen Kim Kardashian's appearance on SNL, her Vogue cover, collaboration with the Balenciaga high fashion brand, how she used her influence to get a man off of death row, her road to passing her bar exam and now her Sports Illustrated cover.
There are more minor family controversies, there have been divorces and new engagements, but the focus is on good co-parenting and keeping the family growing and together. So now we see more subliminal and less subliminal advertisements for Kim, Kortney, Kloe, Kendal and Kylie's businesses. It feels less and less like reality and more and more like an extended brand deal.
I've only briefly watched Keeping up with the Kardashians as I found them too vacuous and entitled. So I started watching the Kardashians out of curiosity to see precisely how extravagant the family makes itself out to me. There is no doubt the Kardashians have more money, wealth and assets than they could ever need. The trappings of their wealth are astounding; their lifestyle is filled with extravagant mansions, designer clothes, luxury cars, private chefs, jets and diamond jewellery that they don't even take off when they bathe. They certainly enjoy their wealth and work very hard to maintain it.
The series is also carefully constructed to paint them in a serious light; family orientated, motivated, gym-going, justice-seeking, feminist businesswomen and Armenian migrant representatives. Sometimes it is all a little too contrived.
I find myself asking whether these people are so out of touch, not to realise that their desire to do fun things like grocery shopping, going to the car wash and putting gas in the car aren't only ordinary things that everyday people do. Still, these are things that many people are struggling to do right now.
Perhaps it's the socialist in me, but I think the super-wealthy should be more aware of their privilege and give back more to those less fortunate rather than keep desiring more and more. It's pretty grotesque to witness how none of the Kardashians has a social conscious other than to boost their influence and ego.
I admire what the Kardashians have built; their business has a natural skill and gift. They have created an empire. But the Kardashian's privilege has blinded them. They are so out of touch with reality that they have become little than a farce.
I don't feel like watching any more of the series for the time being, as I feel like I am being pulled into a clever marketing trap.
Unless it's too late and I have already been hypnotised. Then I might find myself mindlessly watching next week's episode without knowing how it happened.
You can be red raw and still sing your song
You can have tears in your eyes and still tell your story.
The truth is where the tale lies
You cannot or should not wait to share it.
The emotion will help you to connect with others
Because everyone can see,
understand and communicate
with feelings
So don’t be afraid to bleed onto the page.
We all have the same blood in our veins.
People say you should meet your heroes, but sometimes you could regret what you wish for.
There are many stories of people who meet their idols and turn out to be genuinely horrible.
You might want to meet them, but they won't necessarily be willing to meet you.
The entertainment industry is filled with superficial narcissists with huge egos.
Other famous people have done terrible things to attain and keep their success.
It always saddens me when I hear of children being neglected, abandoned or forgotten by a famous father or mother. Or even children in mitigation for years after a famous parent has passed away, over a slice of the big pie of earnings amassed during a lifetime of touring or working.
I'm sure it's rare to see successful artists without ego who take the time to connect with their fans, actively thanking them and being constantly humble about their work.
There are dozens of examples of famous people having difficulties with their families and those arguing over money and inheritance.
Legendary 1950's comedic actor and director Jerry Lewis was an egomaniac who left behind a stream of endless horribleness. Despite giving money to charities and developing the modern concept of the Telethon to raise funds for worthy causes, he was generally a terrible man to work and live with. He basically disowned his six adult children and first wife, leaving everything to his second wife and adopted daughter. He also had an illegitimate daughter whom he never really acknowledged and who basically died elderly and homeless for most of her life.
Back in my student journalist days, I was able to get a chance to meet Sir Peter Ustinov, who was one of my favourite old-school classic Hollywood character actors from the golden age of cinema. He turned out to be rather charming and open to meeting a couple of clueless and surprised students. We ended up having a lovely conversation with the elderly performer, who was filled with advice and time for the younger generation.
Years after his death in 2004, I was saddened to hear how Sir Peter's six surviving children were in mitigation for years over the estate of the late actor and writer. Sadly most of Sir Peter's trusts which also contained the rights and royalties to everything he wrote and filmed, are not available to the family. Legal fees are eating away at his fortune, and stringent rules regulating the trusts established in Liechtenstein and Switzerland keep everything away from his surviving family.
More recently, in 2017, when one of my favourite American singer-songwriters, Tom Petty passed away suddenly, I was doubly saddened as his daughters from his first wife and current wife immediately plunged into mitigation over his estate. Thank goodness, after several months in court, they were able to reach an agreement.
Being famous doesn't make you immune to human problems like greed, misunderstandings and poor family relations.
Another famous example that comes to mind was from Roy Orbison's life; he had to endure terrible tragedies like the death of his first wife in a motorcycle accident and the death of his two eldest sons in a house fire when he was away on tour. Orbison was a workaholic and focused his energy on performing, writing and recording songs which led him to neglect his surviving son, whom he left to be raised by his grandparents. Even when he later remarried and had another two sons, he practically forgot his first surviving son. While focusing on his big career comeback in the early 90-s, he abandoned his teenage sons, travelling with his wife to LA to work on new projects and collaborations. Later he reconciled with his oldest son before his sudden fatal heart attack, but he never really repaired or addressed the emotional damage caused by the separation. Today, Roy Orbison's sons proudly keep their father's legacy alive and collaborate to promote the Orbison name.
There are so many tales of estranged and abandoned children or the rich and famous, which begs the question, is it all worth it?
It's interesting to reflect on the nature of fame and fortune, whether you need to be pigheaded, arrogant and generally a lousy individual to attain success. Or is it better to be less rich and famous and focus on being a good person while nurturing your family.
What would you choose to do?
Everything serves a purpose
ain’t anything going to waste.
A tear is love which doesn’t know
where to go, it had to come out
or else you would drown.
A beating heart, filled with unrequited regret
is your big soul expressing itself
remember we are made of light
and its got to shine
whether you want it or not
we can’t resist all of this love
sometimes it hurts, we ache for it
we cry for it, it won’t be denied.
None of it is wasted because it is
where we come from
and from whence
we return.
I don't need anyone,
I have myself,
the love I have in my heart is enough,
strength comes as it is required.
I can't stop thinking of you.
I want more of you in my life.
I miss your energy,
I don't need you but
I love you.
Our connection is so special
you hold a mirror up to me
we are two parts of the same whole.
You have always seemed beyond my reach,
too many people love you already.
You've had too many sexy girlfriends
to ever want me.
I don't think you have ever seen me in
any other way than as a friend.
So before I make a fool of myself
I'm going to stop fantasising about you.
I'm simply going to be overly excited
to see you when we reunite,
give you an extra long hug
and tell you how much I love you
and miss you
because that's the truth.
This fascinating book about spirituality and philosophy is based on the knowledge handed down by the Toltecs, an ancient southern Mexican nation dedicated to conserving their ancestral wisdom.
The Toltec is not a religion; instead, it honours specific universal truths that certain spiritual masters have taught and passed on to future generations.
The four agreements describe a rule that encapsulates a way of life that encourages happiness and love.
This simple and down to earth look written by Don Miguel Ruiz is an oral history which encourages a life of authenticity with a frank acknowledgement of human spirituality while not being clouded by the distractions of complex modern life.
This is the kind of book you should use as a reference to reread, meditate upon and follow when you feel overwhelmed and lost in life. It pulls you back from distractions and helps you keep yourself centred if you are distracted.
The four agreements help you realise how much noise and distraction there is in the exterior world. It addresses significant issues like human perception, life purpose and death. The four agreements are designed to help us navigate the perils of life; it's an essential guide on how to lead a more simple, authentic and happy life.
The first agreement is to be impeccable with your word. Not only in the sense of not breaking promises but also about being aware of the power of words and how they can affect you and those around you. Your utterings contain energy and the correct use of your focus which should be in the direction of truth and love.
The second agreement is not to take anything personally. Taking things too personally is an expression of ego. The way people act and what they say is never about you. There is always another reason behind what people do, and it has nothing to do with us, so don't set yourself up for suffering.
The third agreement is not to make any assumptions. Communication is essential; we should never assume something. If you don't understand, ask. Have the courage to ask and find your voice to ask for what you want.
The fourth agreement is always to do your best. Your best will vary depending on your energy level or stage in life. But the most important thing is to be taking action. Don't expect to be rewarded; instead, take action because you love and enjoy every activity you do. When you do your best, you learn to accept yourself and learn from your mistakes.
Apart from these four agreements or steps to follow in life, Don Miguel Ruiz also gives us many practical examples and methods to help us stay on this enlightened path.
It seems to be an oversimplified kind of spirituality, but these four agreements can take a lifetime to understand and master.
Ruiz has dedicated his life to sharing his unique blend of ancient wisdom and modern-day awareness through his book, which is a reference we should keep close to us as a helping hand through life.
The thing about losing something
is that there is nothing to know.
It's an emotion that takes hold of you
pushes you around like a bully that doesn't let up.
You put up with it, let it bleed you dry,
cry yourself to sleep until it loses its strength.
And then you can push it under you, into your heart
Occasionally it will bubble up, making you vomit emotions.
Eventually, it will become a part of you
reminding you how capable you are of love
and how love never really leaves you.
Oh artist, please paint me
I'm desperate to be immortalised
not because I want to be remembered
I'm happy to be forgotten
but because I want to leap out of the page
through my own words
into another's heart
to connect.
To gaze into another's soul.
Through a time beyond myself.
Photo by Karim MANJRA on Unsplash
I’m not good with Mother’s Day. I don’t think anyone else who has lost a child ever can be a hundred percent happy with celebrating motherhood when they will always be missing their child. It’s an ache that never really leaves you sometimes, it’s a dull throbbing you can almost put up with, and you seem to get on with life for a while.
On other days the grief is so powerful that it squeezes your inner organs and makes the tears well up whether you want to or not, and you have to stop, acknowledge it, and let it all flow out. I thought I could open and close the tap, but if the water pressure builds up, your pipes will burst. Who knew grief could be described so aptly with a plumbing metaphor? Life is surprising.
Lately, the emotions snuck up on me in a pretty unique way. It will be 15 years since I lost my firstborn little girl, Estella Carmela Desiree. She was stillborn.
Estella got all tangled up with her umbilical cord. The doctor who performed my cesarean and untangled her said her long cord was wrapped three times around her neck, and as she turned around into the birthing position, her foot pulled at it, and she suffocated. It was a freak accident, like a child playing, hitting its head, and suddenly dying. I still can’t believe such a thing can happen in the womb. You’d think the womb is the safest place to be. I didn’t feel anything, and it would have been impossible to know. Even the doctor said to save a child, you’d have to be lucky enough to be monitoring him at the precise moment he is in distress, and even then, there would be no guarantee that you’d be able to save them in time.
I lost Estella at thirty-eight weeks, towards the end of my pregnancy, when everyone knew and was preparing for her arrival. I was expecting to hold her in my arms.
Instead, I woke up with a terrible sense of emptiness and longing that had never left me. I remember the pain of the operation, the nurse who made me stand up, the blood that ran down my leg, staining my slippers, and the sense that the whole pregnancy and suffering had been for nothing.
The ripple effect of Estella’s loss was felt collectively through my friends and family. They were all as heartbroken as I was. But you try to be brave. You wake up in the morning and try to function even though you are missing a part of yourself. I felt as if I’d lost my faith, my hope, a piece of my identity or soul. I felt so lost for the longest time. Even today, there is nothing worse for your self-worth than losing a child.
If grief has ever taught me anything, it is that it comes from love. The more deeply you love the thing or person you grieve, the deeper and more heartfelt your grief will be. Even though losing Estella felt like dying, I am comforted that my grief comes from a love I’d never experienced before.
I have this theory about love; it’s something that you absolutely cannot control; you have to let it out of you, or else you’re going to burst a blood vessel. Love cannot be contained; it’s bigger than we are. That’s why people are said to be glowing when they fall in love. People do stupid things when they are in love because they don’t know how to express what they feel; it’s often overwhelming.
I find the love I have for Estella never really leaves me, whether you believe the child’s soul stays near or that she is somehow haunting me. I prefer to say she’s still in my mind, in my thoughts, and she manifests herself in one way or another. Her birth/death date is coming up on the fourteenth of May, so I know I’ll begin to feel emotional. I try to say a prayer, light a candle or visit her grave at the cemetery, something to commemorate her.
Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash
The fact that the year my daughter was born (2007), the date of her birth coincided with Mother’s Day etched itself into my subconscious. So much so that on the morning of Mother’s Day this year (the eighth of May). The other day I woke up at five am after the strangest dream. I dreamt that my house had been robbed.
Then the realization hit me. During the week, I’d been following the story of Denise Pipitone, who had disappeared at Mazara del Vallo in the province of Trapani nearly 20 years ago. Sympathizing with her mother, Piera Maggio, who still believes her daughter is alive. The press revisited the case after a Russian girl who had an uncanny resemblance to Denise was found. However, a DNA test confirmed she wasn’t Denise. I remember thinking that’s how I felt, as if my daughter had been stolen from me. An irrational part of me is still waiting, longing for her presence in my life. So the dream wasn’t about my house being robbed; it was about those emotions, the sensation I still have in the pit of my stomach that I’d been robbed of my daughter.
The tears came welling up. I hadn’t cried for Estella for a while, so I must have needed to express my love for her once again. So I let them flow. It is so unfair to be denied your child, but there is nothing much you can do when something like this happens. The best thing is always to remember them, say their name, include them in conversations, in everyday family life, and talk about them with your friends. If you have pictures, keep them close; visit them if you have a gravesite.
I have a particular little shrine in my house with photos of my grandparents and Dad. Estella is represented by a small glass vase of crystal flowers. I’m always speaking with Estella, and everything I write expresses my love for her. The grief therapist I saw after her loss said that I’d be fine because my writing would help me, and it does.
Mother’s Day is difficult because I lost Estella, but it is also tricky because of her little brother Matthias who was born two years after her. Because now I have to be a mother to him. I have to be brave for him; he cannot see me crying. I need to be present for him. We do speak of Estella, and he loves her very much. But he, too, is very much aware of her absence in our lives, and it is a void to fill.
It’s difficult for me to see so many expecting mothers on social media showing off their pregnant bellies. Don’t get me wrong, I love babies, and I’m always happy for other women having babies. But the sharing of intimate photos brings back so many memories of my trauma. I wish people would be more sensitive to others’ losses. One in four people has lost a child, whether it be through miscarriage, abortion, stillbirth, SIDS, illness, or other terrible incidents that steal children from their mothers, fathers, and family.
When my son was born, I kept him to myself. I shared his photos only with friends and family because I didn’t want to trigger other people’s grief. I’d very rarely share anything personal about Matthias; even now that he is 12 years old, I still don’t put him on public display.
I’d say to anyone on social media that yes, your child is beautiful, unique, and loved, but this public forum is not the place to share. You can share little proud moments and snippets, but this isn’t what social media is about. It’s more about advertising, selling products and networking, not sharing personal things. I’d also debate if social media is not even the place to share opinions, but that’s another topic.
There’s no harm in wishing everyone a happy Mother’s Day, celebrating your mother, or sharing a newborn photo. It’s just about being aware of other people’s struggles. Those that feel the sadness in their hearts when they remember their pregnancies. And those who are still struggling in their motherhood journeys.
A celebrity will always push their brand or sell their photos for more followers or influence. Honestly, there is no need to publish your entire maternity photoshoot; you aren’t famous.
So please be gentle to mothers who are suffering, to those crying into their pillows in the early morning of Mother’s Day or on their angel child’s Birthday.
Please, be kind, empathetic and sensitive to others.
There have been better days than now,
felt less lost and confused
not so sad or deflated
I wish for one of those
better days instead of smack
bang in one of the worst ones.
Nothing going right
love went to waste
efforts all worthless
and so, so far away
from everyone I love.
The hurt comes in tears
that bastard blows up in
your face,
whether you like it or not
that emotion's going to come
knock you over and make you
I wish for better days.
They will come; be patient.
I blew you a kiss even though I wanted to give you a real one.
I turned around and walked away.
Heartbroken.
I wish you’d followed me.
I never wanted to hurt you, but I think I did.
I was so stupid and naive, I never saw you.
Actually I thought you didn’t like me.
It is frightening to bare your heart,
declare your feelings.
Most people are afraid
when it comes to big feelings.
Was I really that intimidating?
Couldn’t you have said something.
Why was I so blind?
Why did I have to fuck up my life so much?
Now we are so far from one another.
I don’t know if I can pull myself out of the hole I’ve dug.
I need to get out of this pit because no one is coming to rescue me.
And you don’t even know how much I ache for you.
I’m surely damned.
I prefer talking to myself rather than talking about other people.
It's nice to see others doing well, but the rest of someone's life is none of my business.
Gossip is the home of people who do too little and criticise too much.
That little green-eyed monster
filled with venomous envy
leave it in its own poison.
It's best to avoid talking about others.
I converse with myself, pen and paper or fingers and keyboard
a tête-à -tête with lense and aperture or paint and brush.
An opinion expressed to the full is the most fulfilling
element to life,
completing thoughts that steadily tick over in the mind
these are the things that interest me.
When it comes to music I have a clumsy knack of accidentally discovering things by mistake. I come from a working-class family of Italian migrants whose main concern was work. The most precious gifts my parents and grandparents gave me was the freedom to experience art, music and words. I never had anyone telling me what to listen to, read, or watch, I’ve discovered everything with blissful randomness.
I came into contact with opera and classical music one Sunday afternoon as a bored twelve-year-old channel surfing on the t.v during school holidays in Australia. I stumbled upon a live Met opera broadcast on the ABC network and it has never left my memory ever since. Twirling through the radio channels on my old stereo made me find ABC Classic FM, a radio station dedicated to classical music, which educated me on all sub-genres of this complex type of music, up until my mid-twenties when I moved to Italy and sadly lost this soundtrack to my life.
I first heard the American beat poet Allen Ginsberg performing his Ballad of the Skeletons on Australian Triple J radio station, the year that he died, which lead me to Jack Kerouac, Patti Smith and an entire generation of artists I didn’t know existed.
I heard Roy Orbison when his final album came out in 1988, warbling out You Got it, I fell for his ephemeral voice and slowly worked my way backwards through the catalogue of one of the founding fathers of Rock and Roll, gathering an understanding of everyone from Elvis Presley, to Charlie Perkins, Johnny Cash and the Grand Old Opry.
The Travelling Wilbury’s lead me to the songbooks of Tom Petty, Bob Dylan, George Harrison and Jeff Lynn. Which led me to Bruce Springsteen, Elvis Costello and Tom Waits all in a natural organic progression through American and British rock.
I discovered musicals also from the t.v watching Sunday afternoon re-runs of classics from Gene Kelly’s American in Paris, Singing in the Rain to Mary Poppins, the Sound of music, Carousel, Seven brides for seven brothers, Brigadoon, The Wizard of Oz and a whole universe of stories.
I’m eternally grateful for late-night classic movie re-runs which gave me the joy of witnessing Fred Astair’s fancy footwork and amazing works of art performed by amazing actors like Humphrey Bogart, Katharine Hepburn, Lauren Bacall, Peter Lorre, Charles Laughton, Peter Ustinov, Charlton Heston, Kurt Douglas, James Stewart, Vivien Leigh, Bette Davis and the endless stars in a galaxy who shone so brightly in the now classic Hollywood style. But then that’s a whole other story.
Today my playlist is a motley succession of artists from Icelandic princess Bjork, to the hauntingly addictive voice of Thom York, the beautifully retro sound of Amy Winehouse, the original power of Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday and equally powerful Florence Welch. And this will change according to my moods, the seasons and whatever else I may be thinking of, consuming or witnessing in the world.
There is precious little pop in my listening unless, despite the best of my ability, I find something too catchy to ignore or become transfixed on a chorus or a tune, but it soon works its way out of my system.
I’m Australian so I grew up with some great lyricists playing on my radio including Nick Cave, Paul Kelly, Missy Higgins and Gotye.
The haphazard habit of discovery continues today when I am suddenly struck by the unique sound of someone like Billie Ellish or Grace Vander Wall.
There was a period of my life where I forgot about music. As is the case with grief, loss or trauma, your body goes numb and you kind of phase-out of the world completely as you take time to heal your heart and slightly damaged soul. For a moment listening to music was painful. But eventually, the music came back, it eventually does as you begin to live again. Music has helped me immensely to keep going despite great sadness and holds up many of us.
Words and music have been the two things that have helped me through life. Music reminds us we are never alone, that we are each a part of a wonderful story which is, in turn, a part of ourselves. Our emotions are the same as everyone's, and our experiences contribute to this collective knowledge which grows and continues beyond us. Music is a part of the universal language of love, compassion, emotion and humanity which sustains us all.
I live in Italy now and I’m fascinated by the sounds of contemporary Italian music which has developed along the same line as Britain, America and Australia. I love the sounds of Italian rap artists like Fabri Fibra, Fedez and Jovanotti or the trendy almost K-pop sounds of Maneskine or the Kolors and the soul singer sounds of Noemi and Fiorella Mannoia.
It is truly fascinating to think of how we each have a unique relationship with music and song. For me, it's about finding a unique sound or story which sticks to my mind. It may be something which gives me pleasure, helps me to forget, laugh or cry, but above all it’s a unique connection to an emotive universal language.
I want to write more about music so I’ll be publishing occaional posts here about my electic listening habits and share some visseral reactions to different sounds I’ve heard. Be sure to listen and read along here on A Babel of Words as words and music cannot exist without one another.
My listening playlist is uniquely connected to me and my personality, we each have a personal soundtrack which accompanies us through life.
I see right through you
and into your wild madness
like a transparent teardrop
a bubble that bursts and dissipates
trickling down my leg
and into the ground
drying up in the sun
an anticlimax, all but forgotten.
I dreamt of two thick red devils
with grotesque heads
who were at the edge of hell
one was eating a baby
the others throbbing penis
dragging on the ground
they were babbling to one another
I knew I was in hell
I was so sad
I did not know what to do
I was being tortured for my sins.
Love is still here for you
as I light a candle
in front
of your photo
I remember how your grandson and I
smothered you with hugs and kisses
the last time we said goodbye
Our love for you remains
here suspended in the air
you are intertwined in these
three words.
Sometimes I get tangled up with everyday life.
One fine, straight cotton thread becomes entwined
around my family, work, children and economic situation.
Once it was easy to thread a needle and get to work as I please
now the loop is twisted and turned upon itself around others
and then back to me.
The more I try to pull away from it the tighter it becomes.
Like those poor sea lions and marine animals caught up in plastic
fishing lines cutting into their own skin
around mouths, restricting movement until they starve to death
Could I cut myself out?
What would be left of me?
The thread is cutting off chunks of flesh
surely there won't be much of myself left
the tangle is too tight to be unthread.
Vagrant dressed in dark rags
he walks with his dead limbs against his side,
his face shrouded by unexpressed suffering.
What woes has he seen?
To make him become this sketch of a man.
He takes off his crown and kisses the ground
no one sees him but me
no one to call him mad,
his boots heavy, shuffle upon his holy land
he walks towards the infinite sea his dark face glaring blankly
acting out a pagan salute to the gods of the earth
his rite of passage before departure.
