First Fig

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
It gives a lovely light.

Heart

Heart, have no pity on this house of bone:

Shake it with dancing, break it down with joy.

No man holds mortgage on it; it is your own;

To give, to sell at auction, to destroy.

When you are blind to moonlight on a bed,

when you are deaf to gravel on the pane,

Shall quavering caution from this house instead

Cluck forth at summer mischief in the lane?

All that delightful youth forbears to spend

Molestful age inherits, and the ground

Will have us; therefore, while we're young, my friend -

The Latin's vulgar, but the advice is sound.

Youth, have no pity; leave no farthing here

For age to invest in compromise and fear.

If only my head would stop buzzing… I raise my weary head and gaze slowly around the bare room. The only piece of furniture is the rusty metal chair on which I’m currently squatting. The walls, once a cool, pastel green have been dulled by years of grime and misery… mucus peeling of the walls. The room’s previous inmates have all left their marks. The walls are dotted with splotches of rust-coloured spitballs; trails of reddish-brown goo dribbling down to the floor. Dried blood on mucus. Come to think of it some probably is blood. My stomach clenches. An ancient ceiling fan creaks along reluctantly above my head, doing nothing to alleviate either the stifling heat or the stench of vomit and the sharp, metallic odour of eons of spilt blood. The one, tiny, barred window in the corner is no help either. I’m caged.

I breathe in slow, shallow bursts of the stale air, resisting the inevitable. The sour, decaying atmosphere seeps into my every pore, penetrating and violating me. My insides are restless. Even if the buzzing stopped there would still be that other feeling… As if my very soul was trying to wriggle its way out of my body. Silly, slippery worm; don’t you know you won’t get far? You’ll catch more flies with sugar… or maybe some honey… I feel like I’m covered in it. Thick, sticky, golden brown orange-blossom honey. I can smell it… sickly sweet and cloying. The smell is blood and grease. I wretch, pouring out the contents of my already empty stomach onto the concrete floor.

There is a child. Calling out for help. He’s not sure what it is he needs to be saved from… its something in the darkness just beyond his grasp. Something not entirely tangible, but he knows that he needs to get away. The darkness presses in all around him. The pressure of the unknown is almost too much to bear. He feels lost and alone. He curls into himself and breathes in his own familiar scent. Tears sting his eyes and the lump in his throat is becoming painful. He croaks out a last, desperate plea and is silent. A chill runs up his spine and he looks around in the darkness trying to find his abstract enemy but sight is useless in the gloom. The sound of his heart beating becomes louder as imaginary forms flicker around him, dancing to its primal beat.

A tisket, a tasket
A Twinkle in your eye
Now green, now brown
Now a flash of white smile
Of arrogance, of concern
Of times present and past
Be it pain, be it rapture
Be it unbreakable trust
like silk, like paper
like your hand in mine
Just red, just blue
Just between you and i
Unsaid, unheard
Unavoidable lust
Incase, instead
Inescapable us
New light, new hope
New feelings and old
One shot, one dance
One last lie be told
My heart, my head
My own world to live in
Last call, last kiss
Last time i let you win
Miss you, miss me
Miss the sparks we used to make
You give, you take
You sleep while i wake