Hell is my house

My days have passed away, my
thoughts are dissipated, tormenting my
heart.
They have turned night into day,
and after darkness I hope for light again.
If I wait hell is my house, and I have
made my bed in darkness.
I have said to rottenness; thou art
my father; to worms, my mother and
my sister.
Where is now then my expectation,
and who considereth my patience?
All that I have shall go down into
the deepest pit: Thinkest thou that there
at least I shall have rest?

Job 17: 11 - 16

They are with me

so we are here. you and I. let us sit at this table, this big table, over polished glass and wanton displays of starched whiteness. lift fork here, sip water there.
only do not look at me that way. if you do, i will poison your children
murder your seed
haha, you like that? and you drape me with the flesh of exotic tree dwelling animals. when you adorn my neck with blood, you smile to yourself. i am your pretty trinket, your gold plated imitation gucci. smile at me, you say. i smile at you, and the silver you planted in my teeth reflects the candlelight that bounces offyour bald head
we sit at this table that is as long as it is wide, under ceiling as high as you are tall. you look down at me, possesively, exclusively. everything is as you want it. shoes? i will give you shoes, licentious underclothing that you tear offmy naked body
wear red, you say. i wear red, and i hang my head hang my head my head...
and they watch. perhaps it is the smell of the cocoa butter that you spread on my back. remind me how to be cruel. remind me that clothes hanging to dry under hot sun strong wind
look like ghost and whisper treacherous ideas to me.
only open your eyes and you will see that I talk with them. if you come, you will see me, and you will see how I am with them. and so we sit here
at
this table
that is as long as it is wide as dark as you are strong

and they are with me

May is for mothers

Back in the day Mom used to get excruciating migraines and she still gets them once in a while, but those suckers rendered her completely defenceless, reduced to an agonised heap beneath sweaty and dark sheets. I would sneak into her room, lay next to her on that huge expanse of bed, and stare at her. I remember those times, like they were (yes indeed) yesterday. The fan would whir out its promises each time it made its relentless circuit, and as it turned to face us, breathe soft air into the stagnant migraine waters of the room.
Vague and disorganised primary school memories hide in the dark recess of my mind. They float around like faded post it notes, dropped behind a cluttered desk, aching to be examined again.
I see her, morning after morning, holding the blue jacket I had to stuff into my bag before I got to school because it 'wasn't part of the uniform, and could be con-fis-cated' over the grill, so it would be warm when I wore it. And when I walked to the stop, with my head as low in my jacket as was possible, and the sleep still in my eyes, I was warm.
And always, always, just like clockwork, in the hour she had for lunch, she would come pick me up after school. I tried to be nonchalant about it, face expressionless, walking over to the car with not a care in the world. Yeah, Mom, I knew you were coming.
But I was delighted. Nothing beat the joy of seeing her come driving into the parking lot, with the window slightly down, and the smell of ZCCM wafting out the car.
And there would be ice-cream after that. Bright (almost to the point of fluorescence) pink artifically flavored after taste inducing strawberry ice-cream. I loved it. It gave her headaches, but she ate it with me anyway.
It's all that, and it's more. I know you know this already, but hey. My Mom rocks.