The insane panorama
Of a mad editor
Silent but with stereophonic sound
The movies choose themselves.
With the years
There are more reels
I watch, rivetted
Forgetting that I am asleep
Forgetting that this is my life
Mutter silently, rolling this way and that
Wracked by the desire to be born
But nobody can hear them
Only the rain
Guardian of secrets
Because she knows that nothing is born before its time
Black. It was daylight, but it was black.
Like the inside of his heart
Like her hair that whipped her cheek in wet, vicious spikes. Like the single, lonely rivulet of mascara that had sadly overflowed from the red-rimmed banks of her eyes
Red. Like the pain that throbbed somewhere in his head
Red. Then yellow. Then red. Then yellow. Cruel, insistent, unrelenting.
Like the eyes of the cat that sat on the garden wall – two malevolent, unblinking suns that blazed through the magenta-purple clouds of the bougainvillea.
Through the tar- black that slowly melted. Then dripped.
Into the clotted red. That thinned. Then ran.
Into yellow. That smelted gold. Then smouldering, searing, muttering fell
Into magenta, then purple
Till pain smudged grief leaked into despair smeared in anger streaked with disgust