Burning

In the greyness before, when I'm alone with the greyness, and this burning inside, and the time, the time till I see her again, I wait. I wait. Strange images dancing around me my head broken, I can taste her still, and I wait. I wait until that appointed hour, that shitty little second, till I see her. Alone the two of us in the little room, the heavy curtains blocking out the air, just our panting, and we move closer, fumbling, fumbling, pulling button open, losing control of hand and mouth and tongues, and the heavy air, and the heavy air between us. I'm no longer there in that moment, my head is gone, my body moves with it's own precision. I'm in her eyes, all of me in her eyes, as I stare brightly back through tight curls of a blonde head. And then the underneath, drawn from her, no longer looking in her, looking upon her, the soft tenderness where fingers run, looking for an opening, looking for the chance, and it slip, and it wet. Well I can taste her, taste every piece of her, soft sheet beneath me, as I move closer still, the worthless pieces thrown aside, the garment I no longer want, the robe I have no use for. I am with her, and closer, and closer, forgotten those lost grey moments when we were apart, and the burning between me even harsher, and she asks, and I refuse, she asks again and I refuse, simply to play, with her, and then asked again I give in, and crumble, entering and we are joined, one, moving against each other, slowly, slowly, and again I'm in her eyes, no thought, no thinking, no words, no phrases, no sounds, just us, and what we have become. I rub my hand around her soft breast, push my hand against her hard thigh, and move, just us, and we build, create, construct higher and higher, until the tallest building, and then there perched on the highest vantage, the waves come rolling in around me, pulling brick from brick until nothing remains, except crashing hot running sound, and the passing destruction, and in those seconds, it is all gone, all gone, nothing remains but desolation, sweet oblivion, complete abandon, no more touch, no more sight, no more sound, no more taste, nothing left to hear, I no longer exist, and then she comes rushing in again around me, heavy breaths in my ear, and we lie exhausted, softly touching, until bringing each other back to the real world, the world of drinks, and cheese on crackers, small children crying outside the window, I listen to the passing traffic, and listen to her small breaths, and wait for the greyness and burning to return.

First published online November 2005 @  http://www.poeticdiversity.org

Daredevil Circus

They shot the Indian elephants first, those creatures that had never felt the Gandhi sun. Looked into their small eyes, saw the strange language there, before pointing their automatic rifles. They had to show they meant business so they shot the four elephants first.

Pepe, the clown who used to drag reluctant people from the audience to join in the act, was unwillingly hauled from his bed, where he dreamt of his boyhood in Seville. They held his head in the bucket, the one he filled with torn up silver paper, but real water this time. Held his head till his tiny feet stopped kicking, till the thick makeup was washed from his face. His gigantic shoes taken and used to house chicken eggs, when their mothers had already been slaughtered.

They found Luigi in the bed of his brother’s wife, Angelina, awake and aware, knowing already his elephants were dead. They laughed then, laughed at the sequinned dress Angelina had worn for performances, beautiful under the circus ring lights, cheap and lifeless in the darkness. They forced him to watch while they took their pleasures, their enjoyment before they dragged her to her slavery, a lifetime in the big kitchens, which freedom had deserted. Forced their hands around her legs, coarse like the trunk where the elephant had lifted her above its head. Coarse. All broken then, he waited without struggle, watching in silence as they splashed the fuel around the bright wooden caravan, home of his roaming dynasty. The match falling gentle-like to the boards, the curling soft smoke hand round his neck tighter till unconsciousness broke through. 

            Mario, sliding between the sheets of Rosa, the other elephant girl, didn’t watch his brother’s death, lost in the steps of his dance, the flickering of flame against the low cloud unnoticed, but when their heavy boots broke through the door he fought, brief and brave. They shot him where he stood. Still breathing as he watched, again their pleasures taken with the girl, stretching out his useless hand, mouthing soundless from his desperate mouth. To captivity with her too, beauty and youth saving her from domestic servitude, placed a collar round her neck stating ‘Caesar’s am I’, a concubine to be.

They made Calypso, the girl who swung on the thick twisted rope by the neck, perform, caught awake as she entertained her insomnia. Laughed and jeered as tears ran down her face, not painted at this late hour, the truth of the years etched there, the ringing of gunfire echoing through the empty big top, around the deserted benches. Spun till she grew tired, the twisted twine cutting in. Made her stand then on the bucket that Pepe, the Spaniard once owned, traces of his too large smile still smeared there from his drowning. Made her stand till they could laugh no more, then kicked Pepe’s pail away. She hung there till they struck the tent, a marquee for some secret Maharaja’s garden parties.   

            The great white performing horses struggled in the stalls, rearing high their manicured hooves. The invaders, not prepared for that, hadn’t brought a horse charmer to break their stubborn spirits, held their steel toe caps brief-like, unsure, knowing no bullets were meant for the kin of Pegasus. Exhaustion, eventual, claming their screaming spirits, sweat soaked sides rose and fell with the pulsing of the flames. Then chained they were, high heads of Trojan pride shackled, bent and penitential, failing in their duty, the circus lost, no defenders left, lead away to be steeds of yet unborn dictators as they marched the boulevards of bright birthday military parades, failing memories of children’s smiling faces, watching them dance, erasing in their eye.   

Watching the fall of their mightier cousins, the small black ponies quick-like lost their faith. No rescue, no Dunkirk here, shining coats the master groomed, legs to short for riding, cut them stunted. Witnessed whimpering the noble horses taken in chains. Sniffed briefest at the sawdust of their home, prodded forth into the bitter night, turning dim eyes skyward, glimpses of the hidden moon peeping through the grey, the sharp grass beneath their small limbs, before the great dust mines of the north consumed them, pulling carts till death’s release through endless, starless darkness.   

            The tight rope walker, the man with no name, in the past had claimed he was from Mexico, had seen this scene before, faceless men arriving in the night. Heard it all through the too thin walls, of Buenos Aires, when they came calling for coffee on the disappeared. Had hid his face in mother’s lap till the shouting stopped, but too old now, running too long, sipped a small sherry to calm the questions tumbling, prayed to a virgin that had ignored thousands more qualified than he, hummed soft old tunes to himself, practising his new routine in his mind and waited for them to arrive. 

Grazing, in the outdoors, the camels kept their now familiar detachment. Grunted in unison, pulling on their short chains to scrap another mouthful with tongues dry as ever. Had all been lost before, taken from them in a small bazaar outside Cairo. Longed, through long lost nights of twisted children’s screamings, for the sand of their desert. Closed their large eyes and listened for the water washing, the Falukas of the Nile. Never had been given names, kept that hidden in their heart. No resistance as they followed, pony and mare ahead, to the menageries of wealth bankers, one captivity exchanged. 

Till finally only two brothers, four and five, hugged themselves against the dying elephant’s still breathing side, tears at their eyes. The secret signals useless now, the great mammals paralysed by men’s arms, powerless to play. The children drew shallow breath, in their fragility almost forgotten, discovered by an eager soul, an invader with advancement ahead, his executioner’s Abraham hand stayed by wiser council, still use for ones so young. Away, in bondage with the other prizes, to the pencil factories of the multinationals to attach erasers to the end. Then they burnt it to the ground. 

She took her thirty pieces, the betrayer, the girl hired to make the performances introductions, English too cryptic for the others’ gypsy tongues. She led them there, the dead of night, to have their evil way, and rewarded for her work. Wondered had she done wrong, the full flight flames in jigs, told to leave, now the deal was done, but they had shot the Indian elephants first, those creatures that had never felt the Gandhi sun. Looked into their small eyes, saw the strange language there, before pointing their automatic rifles. They had to show they meant business so they shot the elephants first.


First Published in Southword 8 December 2004