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those trees
are suicidal again
tonight
bent to that point
of split ting
arched over
the road where I live
ready
to throw
themselves
in front of that oncoming
midnight bus
i watch them in panic
trough a nervous curtain
twitching in the breeze
i whisper
please don't do it
i need your shivering shadows
morse coding on my wall
when I can't sleep
when I know
i'm going to dream
of jumping
again
These walls need paintings.
No mirror here to pretend that there are no unseen movements in this room.
Summer rain always comes hard.
The noises hide in the cheap surges of slumber.
Cheap wine remedy; marijuana lullaby and piss.
Early morning urine and the songs of birds bathing in the lightning wake me.
Metal cock on the roof steering us in an unknown direction.
In the dim hues of dawn our house is still afloat.
We move slowly, like pregnant clouds.
We make little waves of sensations but we trap them in our bed.
As I lie in the dark I frantically reach for the conclusion that stars are leaks.
I stare at the thought of murdering the cockroach today.
I drowned the beast.
Does the fact that he was already half dead make me a merciful killer?
He came from the underworld where cyborg creatures graze.
I sent him back through a tunnel of maggots and pubic hair.
Lonely ring.
Lonely pearly ring of a toilet filling: late night burial in shit.
Then I heard him in the crevasses of the bathroom.
He tapped on my wall with long fingernails and an ever-present echo.
The acoustic of his nails lingers.
I lie in cotton wool and a worn down sheet full of last night's sweat.
A thousand dreams still caught in the mosquito net.
There it is again.
Listen.
Someone at the front door.
Painful poise; it's a pencil scratching at my door.
Frantically begging me to enter and watch me sleep.
i'm losing my mind
it's slipping and it's falling
it's a great big mirror cracking.
I'll build god's face again
I'll glue back piece by piece
with placebos and good luck
he might not be too scarred
Cecilia Ferreira is a fine artist who lives in Africa. She is overly infatuated with life and its secrets and she's constantly searching for that awful, beautiful thing called "the truth". She wants to find the truth before it finds her. She never stops creating, because if she ever does, her outlets will turn inwards and then she would be fucked. Her main gallery is the internet and her visual art has been published in numerous internet magazines. She recently started writing in English. She uses bad grammar and makes a lot of spelling mistakes, but luckily poetry doesn't mind. Her poems can be read at http://kaganof.com/kagablog/category/contributors/cecilia/.