Phanta

Butterflies

Mr A — Sun, 17 Aug 2008 23:33:30 +0000

Butterflies in my stomach float up to my brain,
Outside of myself, I thought I was insane.
Then in no time at all the butterflies wane,
Four years ‘till insanity clears.

Loved typically by those with so much to gain,
As if it has power to subtract your pain.
But it’s pain that will haunt your final curtain
You won’t even notice their tears.

When I think I’ve lost you, you just come right back.
I filter you out somehow you’re still intact.
Though I know that I love you, you’re my only vice;
Either symptom or cause of the way I play dice.

Sewage unfiltered congealed on my lungs,
And I cry it’s not too late to see it undone.
Then I cry all I want is another one,
And I don’t seem to notice the years.

A man held my hand through his final note,
With yellow stained fingers and hole in his throat.
It’s been months since that note still I can’t bear the noise
As a tube sucks the mucous which ruins his voice.

Frail animal writhing round, eyes wide with fear.
Both of us wished to be anywhere but here.
Butterflies in my stomach, or maybe just flies
Will he notice my tears when he dies?

The Jeweller

Mr A — Thu, 14 Aug 2008 16:51:42 +0000

A young man darkened here today,
With sadness of the years he’d not.
An order made before, in May,
When news, and love, were yet to break.

Flashes! Glints! The sparkles sicken.
A withered rose is lost at sea:
With circles made for fake men’s fingers;
With cheating, hopeful brides to be.

Tainted symbol on display,
Bought in love. But that was May.
Appearing pure. In Love! In Hope!
but hiding pure complete despair

A single ring was all he took:
A circle; “everlasting life”.
But two were made to be together,
In the past, his future wife.

Now what to do with what he left?
Both were bought, just one was kept.
Now none should bear it, none should wear it,
None should hold it close to them.

Hollow. Dead. A fractured shell.
A missing piece. A hole in whole.
A life destroyed. One left in hell.
Sole. Magnetic Monopole.

Withered Rose

Mr A — Thu, 14 Aug 2008 16:33:35 +0000

Withered rose upon the sill,
Can’t bear to see you go.
Until
Your gentle wilt and soft decay
Mean I must throw you away.

Shrivelled petals,
softened thorns.
A former bloom become forlorn.
Still, affection touches me
Each time my eyes, by chance,
they see The simple cup and dirty pool,
Frayed stem that can’t support its jewel,
And deep red overcome by mould, Which may, itself, soon grow too old.

Plastic window,
twisted wrap Around the gift placed in my lap.

The gift reduced; the love has not.
This rose will never, ever rot.

Self-Indulgent People

Mr A — Thu, 14 Aug 2008 04:16:57 +0000

Self-indulgent people induce vacancy in me,
Staring at their moving lips; their words I cannot see.
I try to force my ears to catch the wave of tedium.
Passive, yet intrusive torrents wash right over me.

This person-false-projected is a clever masquerade.
Low self-image shielded by an arrogant facade.
I hide from their illusive self, pretending to converse.
Their words force out contempt in me; self-image made worse.

He hides behind a dialogue of forced banality,
Obscuring personality, a wall which stands between.
He pauses for a break, I think it’s now my time to speak.
I start; he stops my timid words with something less unique.

Arrogance plants its seed in people’s low self esteem.
Denial is its root, no-one is ever what they seem -
Even to themselves – delusion casts a blinding dream
which fools those who witness it, the truth cannot be seen.

Reaction to the expectations of society:
The ones who feel inadequate are claimed by piety.
This, in turn, beats down the weak and feeble in its wake;
Perpetuating misery and celebrating ‘fake’.

Prejudice

Mr A — Thu, 14 Aug 2008 04:12:50 +0000

I sit by myself in the corner of the room.

Not a soul is here, only the hustling and bustling of lonely, busy people talking about their own life and expecting it to fall on interested ears. Not these ears.

Others may feign their interest, through social imperative or otherwise, but they are not truly interested. In that respect we are the same animal, but in that respect only.

Our choices of action following that fact are largely different. I choose not to hide my disinterest, but instead to let silence display my contempt. My contempt for their clothing, the mascot of social conformity; my contempt for their hidden faces – insecurity masking itself as ostentation, as it does so often, pock-marking life, detracting from its beauty.

Most of all, though: my contempt for their immediately unwelcoming prejudice, drawing their selfish, uninformed conclusions about the way I am, simply from the way I choose to dress, act or smile in mockery at them.

Fire Alarm

Mr A — Thu, 14 Aug 2008 03:57:00 +0000

The fire alarm sounds. Its piercing shrill cuts me to my primeval self: the flight or fight response takes over and, for a moment, my haste is ready to run through my elderly work colleague in its path towards the exit. If necessary.

Whatever it takes.

And then the mist descends, my ears adjust and I realise the folly of my body’s snap judgement. But somehow it leaves me on edge. My aged acquaintance and I look at each other slightly differently for a moment, before we return to civilisation.