The rain was running late, still pattering
on the muddy puddles of the city sky,
and the street was smeared with cloud
star-ridden with mercury lamps—
a world as dreary as long-lost
infatuation, as a friend’s anger,
as empty jealousy.
Like a moth attracted
to the flickers of fluorescent lights,
I chose a frayed café where
my dairy-whitened instant coffee
with artificial sweetener
—all its chemical delights—
put me in the writing mood.
I read a little of “Howe to Writte”
by someone called Blade Walker:
Do not write about yourself,
you might scribble regrettable revelations:
poisonous reflections of venomous memory,
elaborations of fears unfounded,
of solitude without solace.
Three irreconcilable pieces.
I’ve spent a lifetime being who I’m not,
yet my stigmata cannot be disguised—
nervous mannerisms, and
a dash of desperation in the eyes.
Previously on Blade Walker: The earth is inhabited by extraterrestrials, and humans are mostly confined to sanctuaries. Blade Walker and Alícia Arrepio were eating mangoes by a river when a sinkhole opened and spread. Here is the first instalment and here, the second instalment.
A buzzing sound rose
from the newly formed crevasse,
and a swarm of giant wasps emerged.
Previously on Blade Walker: Blade Walker and Alícia Arrepio were eating mangoes by a river when a sinkhole opened nearby and a factory disappeared into it.
“When I’m waiting for the bus
at the railway station,
I often wonder what’s hiding
in the ground beneath my feet.
“When I’m walking the dog
with my yo-yo as well.
“Most of the time, actually.”
Alícia nodded.
“You’re human, aren’t you?”