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Showing posts from 2016

Free coffee

Today is a big day. I'm due for my free coffee at the Coffee Shop I have pledged loyalty to. Strung together in claustrophobic array, the nine round stamps on my lovingly frayed cardboard card are my badges of pride. I paid for this reward diligently. There were times when I could have done without a coffee but I still ordered one knowing that today would come. Of course, this reward isn't a surprise. It's a reward I sponsored to remind myself of what it feels like to be rewarded. I can only dream of the joy I would reap from the completion of my pension plan, the repayment of my mortgage... "Here's your free coffee, Sir. No sugar." The girl behind the counter flashes a smile of unsweetened excitement. "And here's your brand new loyalty card." Now this is a surprise. Not only was a given a "free" coffee, I was also presented with an opportunity to finance a future reward. The nine round slots on my brand new loyalty card are star

Good-bye George Michael

I woke up in the middle of the night with a lump in my throat: a residue of wine, chocolate, turkey, baklava and Christmas trimmings of all sorts. I switched on my phone to find out what the time was and a BBC News notification flashed by: "George Michael dies at 53". I tapped the semi-awake app icon. The somber factual headline had made it to the top of the list. I turned to Facebook in disbelief. A waterfall of crying smileys had consumed my feed. Still sleepy and disbelieving, I knocked o n Google's door for the facts. And yes, he was gone. His "end date" on Wikipedia was added. Yesterday was his last Christmas. I felt sad, disturbed and robbed. George Michael was one of the people I grew up with. He was on the radio when my grandmother woke me up to go to school. He was on the radio when I was on the bus to University. He was on the radio at the canteen at work. I was never a fan but I always felt that he was my...mate. I have never not known his voice,

Pursed lips

"I'm so sorry", I half-whispered to the lady on the underground train whom I'd pushed involuntarily. She gave me a blank stare and her lips pursed tightly. Those lips of hers looked as if they were about to give birth to a smile but then they miscarried or, rather, aborted it. The crescent crease that had replaced her mouth was a smile turned upside-down. "I said, I'm sorry", I insisted as the receding rumble of the train announced the next stop. "This is Charing Cross", the dulcet female tones of the recording reassured us. The lady's pointed white collar stuck into her beige blazer like the sharp fangs of a vampire. I wondered what was on her mind. Did her husband neglect to give her a kiss in the morning? Did she have a husband? Did her two-year-old smash the plate with broccoli against the kitchen wall last night? Or did her two-year-old only exist in her head? She inhaled quickly and audibly through her clenched lipstick-stained teet

About a fig

Last night I admired a fig. A soft suede bulge pregnant with promise of sweetness, profusely perfumed, designed to bewilder, eager to surrender..to the touch or to the tooth. Once halved by my lustful incisors, this supernatural sac revealed a Dali painting of sorts, a snapshot of bursting delight, a tapestry of a raging sea, a multitude of sugary alien worms so craftily fluffed in plush disarray, so lavishly hued in amethyst, amber and gold. Last night I devoured a fig with aesthetic abandon.

Will the ladybird ever know?

Will the ladybird ever know that the giant hand that snatched her and threw her out in the open, so vehemently, belonged to a man who breathes and feels and fears (with tears, occasionally) and smiles, once in a blue moon? "It is the ultimate earthquake, the terminal world shake", the ladybird thought as she surrendered with prayer to the giant hand that belonged to a man with a heart fairly decent, intentions increasingly good and habits unfailingly wretched. Will the ladybird ever know that the giant hand once touched the giant man's quivering lip to blow a kiss to another warm-blooded giant? That it falters at times? That it draws lilies and penguins and planets and once in a blue moon, a wee black-spotted red-winged princess who's bound to chance upon a saviour.

O summer!

O summer! THIS is what summer feels like. How could I ever forget?! The promise of nourishing sunshine and sweltering heat wrapped around you like a favourite garment. Flip-flopping to a rhythm only familiar to you, humming to unfamiliar tunes that feel so real in your heart. (care)Free, exposed, reckless, unhurried, mighty and small, both a superman and a child. Summer. The glistening mane of horses on pasture at sunset. The smell of the sea infused with the flavour of your early morning coffee. The sweetest chill of pistachio ice-cream between your teeth that urges you to look up and see...that the sky is full of stars, so many stars. On a night like this, I would have been chasing fireflies in my grandparents' garden centuries ago...(Will I ever see fireflies again? May I?) And it's all enough, simply sufficient, just right. There are no question marks, no dependencies or nice-to-haves. The poetry is in the prose. Every day. You go to bed content. You wake up and do it all

Too abstract to decipher

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Easter Saturday. Cold wind profuse with embryonic raindrops. I am conditioned to imagine that raindrops are round, to some degree, but these feel like splinters scraping against my skin. Right before my eyes, a pretty picture appears to arrest me. Freshly picked Baby's Breath in front of a red curtain. Who is behind the curtain, I wonder. A raver who lost his teeshirt in a warehouse in Berlin? A lesbian who runs a tea bar in Angel and who is not on Facebook? A happy barber whose pitch-black chest hair is poking through his shiny white shirt? A wrinkled Chinese man whose tea is getting colder than his stare? And who am I today? My reflection is, as usual, too abstract to decipher.

Smoke

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She wouldn't call. Martin somehow knew it. The girl who had asked him to (please) promise her that he would (always) protect her whilst they were making love last night would never call the number he had fondly engraved onto an old British Gas bill. There was something about the way she chirped "See ya!" when the parted at Kennington, something about her blurry eyes and swift smudged lipstick smile that screamed good-bye in the concave silence of the empty tube. Was her name really Lisa? Did last night really happen? Martin tried to look inside his heart but all he could see was smoke.