How I Would Finally See Them Disappear (O Courage – My King, My Fist!)

How I Would Finally See Them Disappear (O Courage – My King, My Fist!).

 

How I Would Finally See Them Disappear (O Courage – My King, My Fist!)

So I procrastinate by writing down random thoughts all over Ismail Xavier’s ‘Historical Allegory’ article… but at least I try to compile them together to make myself think I’ve done something useful with my time. This is, of course no poetry, but simply a result of my lack of ability to write in prose-form.

For my beloved Malaysia(ns) in their bedrooms…

 How I Would Finally See Them Disappear (O Courage – My King, My Fist!)

 

There I was,

lying so quietly

still,

in the stifling confines

of my lived space.

When the urge to scream,

Forced

Itself upon me.

I was frightened,

for reasons I could find no way

of knowing.

O why, should I have allowed myself to be so frightened?

I could not,

from any one corner of my powerless frame,

see the vindication

for it

Since there seemed nothing for me to be frightened of.

So I remained,

just as I knew I should,

so quietly still,

when I felt myself scream…

Only to hear its echo

Within the bloody walls

and the inner most depths

of my heart.

 

 

 

And there I was,

closing my eyes

as tightly and cowardly

as I only could.

O why, O why should I have allowed myself to be so frightened?

And upon having to

open them once again,

I began to see the walls

Around me

slowly and in such manners so painfully quiet

Fade their colours away.

And there and then again,

I was struck

with the urge to scream.

But just like before,

my voice could not find its way out

of my bloody ticker.

And as the walls

Around me

Continued to submit itself

to such revolting expels,

I realized to my horror

that it was beginning to bear

The ugliest of transparencies.

 

 

 

There I was,

my heart beginning to burn.

With every scream…

struggling, straining and stinging,

I felt its sore…

More, more and more.

And at every ounce of blood

that my heart would

pump, pump and pump,

I would feel it burn even more.

And my poor, quiet soul,

would scream even louder.

And my poor heart,

would sting and burn,

would sting and burn,

More, more and more and more…

O why? O why? Should I have allowed myself to be so frightened?

Yet there I STILL was,

with that splitting pain one would feel

If only a needle should

Force itself

To pierce right through,

So slowly and quietly,

an open and most bloody of wounds.

O why? O why…

I felt the pleadings

Within me.

But as I had feared,

the colours of the wall

Faded completely…

 

 

 

There I was,

in my lived space,

Within those four walls,

no,

Within glass walls

with silver linings

Around

each of their borders –

How ugly and clear

How cold and captivating.

My heart began to pump

even harder and louder.

Then there I saw,

in the distance,

Faces that glowed

With such incomprehensible life…

With the most blindingly radiant of

Eyes,

With the most painfully striking of

Smiles –

The most beautiful of Princes and Princesses…

Gliding toward the glass walls

Around me.

Their gaze were fixated

on me.

Like sewing threads

Tightening my lips;

Like plaster and clay

Covering my eyes;

Like the blood that

Nailed my feet

To this soil;

Like the nails that had

Pinned my soul

To this coffin.

 

 

 

At that,

the thought of all my ‘sins’,

Forced

Itself upon me.

Those stubborn desires

of mine,

the perverse thoughts

of the mind,

and those most savagely willful indulgings.

O why? O why? Should I have allowed myself to be so frightened?

My heart began to pump

More, more and more,

Louder and harder

than ever before…

So loud,

that I could hear it in my ears,

So hard,

that I could feel it in my throat.

O how terribly sorry I was made to feel…

O Why should I have allowed myself to be so frightened?

 

 

 

There I was,

as the urge to be punished

Forced

Itself upon me…

To punish me

for all those ‘sins’…

To plaster my mouth,

that I may speak no more;

To put needles through my eyes,

that I may see no more.

O why? O why? Could I have not allowed myself to put a needle through my eyes?

For what use were they then?

When they be captivated

Only by the most painful of sights…

When they should see only these

Glass walls

Around me

and those beautifully cruel

Princes and Princesses.

As they inched close-r and close-r…

with Their eyes

sharper than the sharpest of needles…

I could see Them

Watching me,

More and more;

I could hear Them

Listening more and more

to my heart’s violent screams.

 

 

 

And there and then,

My heart did scream

Louder than before…

No,

Louder than ever before.

I could feel the needle

Touching the very surface

of that open wound.

They reached out

Their hands,

and placed Their pointers against Their lips…

O why? O why? Should I have allowed myself to be so frightened?

And still there I was,

as They then reached out

Their hands

Toward the glass walls.

I could  see –

O how painful it was!

Their ears closing in…

I could hear –

O how violent it was!

Their eyes drawing near…

As Their hands moved to border on the surface

of that cold, ugly and captivating

Glass.

And then

I thought…

about that needle.

Yes, all of a sudden,

I thought…

 

 

 

I thought about…

My eyes, my mouth and my ears.

 

 

 

And then,

right then,

there occurred a most peculiar incident,

at the very time

I recaptured

The forgotten act of thought.

What was so peculiar…

but, I think, less unfamiliar,

was that before my heart was to be punctured,

that is,

the split second between

Their hands touching the surface

of the glass,

and the needle inside penetrating

that of my heart…

I saw

In my eyes,

I heard

In my ears,

I felt

In my mouth,

For the first time in my living…

The most unpleasantly uncomfortable of all silences.

And

I thought…

Yes, I…

Thought,

in the loudest of voices –

Piercing, splitting and stabbing –

“O why? O why? Should I allow myself to be so afraid?”

 

 

 

And at that,

I

Stood up,

For the first time in my

Life.

I

Reached out my

Hand

and

I

Clenched it.

I

Raised it up

to punch and puncture the stale and stifling air

as

I

Exclaimed,

at the top of my

Voice…

 

when

Pump… Pump… Pump…

“Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!”

 

The Untold Tale of A Greatest Man

 

 

He lay there.

Just there,

Staring at the morning sky.

The sun hidden from his face,

The air breathing across his nose,

The whispers from a busy street kissing his open lips.

His eyes, closed.

 

 

He lay there,

With his back to the earth,

His face hidden from the world,

The stench of the busy streets teasing his nostrils,

The noisy footsteps trampling over his lips.

His eyes, still, closed.

 

 

He was a ‘lonesome’ man,

They would think,

A ‘thinker’, they would guess.

“A mysterious man” he must have been,

“With his long hair and thick grey beard”.

But no,

No one looked,

No one would.

The blind whisperings of their thoughts,

Confined to only roam these streets,

Could not find their way to him.

He must have been that suspicious type,

Not to be told of, and not spoken with…

Hiding behind his thick beard and long grey hair.

 

 

“No, a ‘people’s man’ he once said,

A ‘speaker’ he once thought”  –

A mysterious other could say of him.

But no,

No one spoke,

No one would.

Their noisy footsteps so deafening,

Were left to only roam these streets,

To only trample, so harsh and so cruel.

While the mysterious other,

Now with quite possibly short hair and a clean shave,

Lay quiet in hiding.

 

 

He was one who knew too much perhaps?

But no shots were heard, no one would hear.

A government agent, killed on duty.

But no stabs on his back? No one would see.

A cast-away, A polymath, A millionaire, A sociopath –

Who would know?

No, who could know?

Behind that thick beard and long hair,

He quite possibly was an astronaut,

Intoxicated by the stench in the air.

Or perhaps a revolutionary,

Not to be told of, and not spoken with.

But no, quite possibly not –

His lips are open.

 

 

He lied there last night,

To stare at the night sky,

And the stars looked down on his face.

The garbage lined up,

Oblivious of his presence,

And waited for their morning pick-up.

While the quiet streets listened…

Listened, as they only then could,

Till his final breath.

The one that whispered softly,

and kindly,

To a comfortably deserted world.

He could have been the greatest man,

His lips left an open smile.

If only they listened,

If only they’d look.

Then perhaps yes,

He would look quite possibly like the greatest man.

 

 

Now, there he lay,

Under the morning sky.

The sun hiding from his face,

The garbage still in wait…

Its noise harsh,

and cruel.

The busy streets, still ignorant of his existence,

Looked to be the greatest  man –

A secret agent, a millionaire, an intellectual, an astronaut…

Its stench intoxicating.

They never listened, they never cared.

And now his lips are a quiet smile.

They never looked, they could never have.

And now,

His eyes are closed.

pic. : Shadow-lines (from prophecyblur.com)