Sunday, 28 March 2010

Words like tiny light-weight bricks. I pick them up between my thumb and index finger, gently stacking them on top of each other. I am building something small and beautiful. I am trying. I am trying because I have to. I place the word gently on my tongue and it melts, a sugar cube in hot tea. It slips between my lips and drips to the floor. And the word hardens from fluid to sugared floss, taking the shape of weaved cotton candy tales of waking dreams; they weave candied braids of joy, and love, misfortune and tragedy. They shout from the soap box and whisper about my love, and they dance. They salsa around ancient cities, they slam-dance in dingy bars, and gyrate to deejays spinning under flashing lights. My once manic words that splashed spray-painted profanity on the brick walls of love-affairs, screaming until they were hoarse, now drive between painted yellow lines, and stop for traffic lights. Now my words stand at attention and march in rows; they are going somewhere.

My words go to bed early and don't eat carbs.


  1. This is the most exquisite piece of writing I have read in YEARS. I'm blown away.