Grapes

constructive criticism is more than welcome

 

Rain drops smash on the window,
Hit it, tumble rapidly,
Branch into others,
Then swerve like swift currents,
Outrun each other…..and run
The window bends
Under their intrepid
Scroll…
They gallop and race
And become more
And one drop branches into three others
And they twist and are determined
And they move and speed and tear along…
In a rhythmic pace!
A perfect universe must this be,
If I can see a song…

 

Then crack in the wall, slapped cheek,
The blouse ripped, unfair chase…
Through the corners of the wall,
Oil, not, paranoia leaks,
Two small feet under the blanket creep…
Paranoia and grunts and screams…
The bedspring squeaks
In symphony…
Out of time notes
Break the strings
or
Demonic parents…

All that rhythm on my window,
In my pulse,
Plays a little wrong…

 

 

I see my favourite doll
(a few hours ago
My mother had put a big bow
On her head to hide where the hair
Has begun to fall…)
I see my favourite doll
With a bleeding nose
With eyes popped out
And I hide her under the blanket,
Leaving just a little hole
For enough air….
Oh, I know,
She is curled up
Because she is scared.
But I’m there…

 

Cacophonic laughter comes from our old TV set,
Wants to devour their lunatic shout…
But that shout, that dirty, sordid shout
Ricochets in the windows
And falls heavy on the bed…
I keep repeating to my favourite doll,
With her eyes popped out,
And a bleeding nose,
‘Curl up the body to hide the toes’…
As if those toes
Needed to be safe,
As if those toes
Guaranteed escape,
As if those toes
Mattered more
Than the heart,
The eyes and that bleeding nose…

 

 

The grunts of a father spill
on the floor to cover
the screams of a mother.
She drops a porcelain ball,
With grapes, and grapes begin to roll…
And I run, and instead to pick them up,
I let them get smashed under my toes,
Let that sweet juice get sucked
Into the floor’s crack,
Let my patch of laughter rest
Where my father dared slap…

 

 

You know, in fifty years time (counted in wrinkles)
My father is dead, my mother is dead,
And I sit alone in the dark,
On that same floor that they had stained with red.
A sweet grape drop is sucked into the wooden crack,
rivering a lifeline on a palm instead…

Why put a bow

when you are gonna rip the head? 
Both of them dead…

My window has no rhythm and I need no blanket to save the soul…
Scattered grapes near my bare feet roll,
And I have no strength, no courage like before,
To smash them under my wrinkled toes…

No rain attunes to that silenced soundtrack
but a broken couplet…
They are dead. They are dead. They are dead….

 

Reviews

[Jack...]

So very cool, as if I were walking a darkened hallway, tiny specks of light emitting from tarnished brass plates on the crooked doors, peeking through keyholes and staring in frozen fear of what my eyes find. This was very well written, I liked how this felt and called out to me as I read.

[Marri]

Thank you, Jack, for this inspiring and original review :)

[Ken Simm.]

Shock, from the change. From the sudden, unexpected, so heart breaking change. And full of wonder for all that. Dichotomy absolute.

[Circe]

this leaves a really strong impression... those scenes are vivid, unsettling and you just kind of hold the audience captivated in that trauma... "why put a bow when you are gonna rip the head?" just one of the many striking lines that caught my breath... your writings are unique in subject and language... definitely one that I can keep reading again and see something more each time.

[Marri]

Thank you! I am honoured that you read the rainbows of my mind!

[FJ Davis]

Stunning work, Marri, for which, in my opinion, there can be no criticism--constructive, or otherwise.

[Marri]

Thank you! touching comment!