Tory

Ah! What sight tonight! What scenery on silver glaze this glass on whose pane plain the image in technicolor of mauve, livid blue, azure almost in black coat when his tie in cerise-cerise! Did the light blind me on both me feet. Did it? It did, by ledge high at the end of the room, was I blinded in a blink yet the move, his move, but the shiver mine. When to stay? Ask I. When to stay for long, forever? Why the sojourn? Why to stay? Tessellated the floor on glass and glass, a slippery touch did I not touch, yet my fingers wet. I wiped it again – such pressure on the skin of her cheeks, that the impression of my fingertips on imprint cum a palimpsest of the fingers already there. Ah! Intense the care! Cosset I, but loves she someone else, but cosset I her like a baby now.

I will love her so much but this deep a trace of love – so thick on thin skin, straight smear in ink of blood. How come I say? How come the water so full in my eyes when her hath I not been for once, even for once to say? Who is she to me? Tory, thou to me. Reckon I, some cognizance well learned, damn the rest that come; you I know. I know you well I think. So where the same from end in rear? Did he sleep well? Will he sleep well tonight? A few lines on a desire to compose, in me am I a page white, lines in pale black run so straight in design from left to right, left to right. Alas the margins! Alas the emptiness there. I think the space rendered untouched is so beautiful. I want to touch it – you see, a touch I want, a touch I crave. So am I in me a paper blank, the white in me drinking all the ink. Oh! What a thirst in my throat? So dry the walls, so may the drizzle pour, kiss stucco white again on the balcony so close to me, yet this throat so dry. Oh my God! Thirsty am I. A few lines, two to three in mind. Oh what am I? I ask, and drown in the water of the pit. A quagmire in the dark I seek; ramble, amble, stumble upon the paving in pebbles and stones – there Tory, am I yet home to you? Where thy home to me? Let me be home to you. How pathetic this minuscule existence. I am waiting to breathe, and the air, the air, oh the air! Cold gale of a zephyr quiet, decided I upon a strike of calm a drift of the wind, a kiss cold to touch, colder the seepage within. Ah! what a feeling when anti-parallel the influx of current in me – an onrush of electricity down the arterial alleys when from the pores, the crevices on the skin the sweat oozes and oozes out of you. May I taste it? The cold air I can find, from the ambience in dying summer of the city, may I taste the coldness in the air, but lackaday! The demon in me shouts! – So much chaos in the air of this room then, turbulence layer on layer will lie, so midst the hurricane this body of mine – yes, this body of mine. May the wind be wild for a forest am I in, ramshackle ruin of the woods may I make. Let the wind be wild. Auld lang syne, taste sweet in mind of mine, swift a splash of a memory germane to one, five, ten alas! Twenty to say! Oh Lord, did I say too much? Is it too much to say? ‘Twas to much to see, and too much I see – veranda, the purlieus from the window clear, he came home today. Mother, he there, yonder the doorstep his feet lay. Colder the air now. I am at ease I surmise, but unhealthy the prerogative, when healthy is it to vomit it out, all that I have to say, all that I will say. Yet to his footsteps thine ears erect, thump, squelch, thump, and squelch, then whoosh the wind again. Rows and columns, wooden planks of wood in shapes rectangular, square, triangle and circle to diamond the final size in design – Square the seat on whose sylvan rear my back and then some respite! Hah! This rest – ‘tis bad, ‘tis bad I say, ‘tis bad I scream. Hear me dear. Am I deaf to my voice now. Hark me my love, and hark me right. Oh God! My Lord! So intense the thirst in me on the mayhem in the wind that thick is the dryness, in sleet will the catarrh from early morning fall like drizzle from my brain. I think, I think this to say. Something, just something to say, am I here to utter and blabber all the way. So on these shapes foregoing, so good in craft, the fresh wood, yet the succulence so dead that rosewood is it not, but in circles and circles the rings of age reveal under skin of my palms on the table. Lady, a lady old, blonde to say, a vivacity not yet gone, but fading somehow, she and she only in my mind now. And I hate it with respect, I hate to have her in my rotunda now. Here my politeness still looms around, but I hate it I admit; but revere will I her presence everywhere else I submit. But alas! Was she not the one on whose the words in spillage of this black color in array. I tell thee! Words to scribble as may me fingers do – they stop, I think; they move, I feel. A sudden barrage of people in bonce above, a round house was that never to house one is but a shelter seldom for me. Where do I go? Where do I go? This my only home, our home Tory. Where to live, if not in body of my own? Where the world when lose I meself at a place I used to call home off and on, back to back. What this world outside when my world in mother of mine, she my Tory with life. Oh Tory! In thee this world of mine. Oh Lord, what is it? Am I profane to Thy Grace? What the blasphemy? Why do I ask? I know it already. Thou see, such a mistake I made. A saboteur am I, vandal to affluence of her pockets, hath I sabotaged time and time again. Thus, the disgrace! A mistake I made! Dear lover not of the hands, but the smear of ink on the skin of them, listen to the wind I hark – a zephyr cold against the bare arms and legs. Did I stand there; on a balcony my entire body just a moment ago. I say, just a moment ago. From there the sight yonder of sidereal stars on the floor of my neighbor’s terrace – on the ledge of the grill some pattern carved out, holes and holes in complete design along both the ends of the mansion run, so through the aperture bijou, the light in dance with the foliage of trees come that in between the lamp and me – so through the holes the knowledge of the burning tungsten at a distance. Have I, or do I not have the courage now to tell thee what I saw? But I am telling already. Must you hear me. I am yelling. I am yelling out loud somewhere, and looking for some place to be. Where shall I amble? Where my walk in this room on white tiles, cold wetness in the air at one corner of it where the shower – a summer’s relief, and wherein the light through muzzy a mosaic in disheveled stitches gone all wrong, yet the tapestry a shiny sheen of the brightest moon makes, the light of a tower, its light from some tungsten burning at a distance too far I see all over again. But on the pane of my window its halt – there I find it; on the pane of my window, midst strokes of a yellow paint brush, muddy the spots for a concrete sleet do the sprinkles make, on this glass does the world impress for on the pane the light falls. I find it, I find it on the glass, on this sheet of glass only. Some thirst I quenched, fullness of flesh, but the heart wants to cry. Oh dear, lovesick am I. A love, do thou see? A twin love I lost. There the chisel on my chest, a knife not from the kitchen, but salt, and cumin seeds, and flakes of spices in powder of red and green from the cruet of the dining table, at a place I used to call home it all found, all like splinters of cut wood fall, and I think it a rain of snow in my hometown in the continent’s July. Not this one either my dear reader, not on this the composition, this spillage of the color of a sky lonely without the stars, but something else, something else I tell you. Hear me right now my listener so patient, and hark me right I entreat, hark me right I beg.

Long and long at the end the road her eyne so transfixed, his gaze she seeks when on her eyes does everything in me fall for from the dinette of the house. There the sallow streetlight perhaps, on the yellow glint at midnight I see the flaxen glow turning silver about the gates in grey, old dusty gates on whose metal the green moss grows, Ivy and Ivy green in lush verdure covering it up from sharp apex to cut to the wheels at the bottom to roll and close for the night. We are not closed for awake art we both, and him on the door soon. Will he be here soon. The metal shines reflecting the rain which still sticks to the body cut in slender cylinders yonder. In drops and drops the sticky stature, art they there to stay. I see that, but her, Tory’s eyes are blind to everything I see. What does she see? Oh Tory, what do you see? Him and him only! Damn it! ‘Tis him and him only. The fall of water in thin lines, drip they not in sight of my eyes, but like “a steady swish of a tropical downpour” they come down and down to me, as Bond would say in his diary of monsoon. She, Tory, she not the one to see thus, for she a woman born again, she a mother to a girl only seven and in whose retina some red-red hue – she my Tory in intense crimson of love, deep and viscous rouge so merciless on the skin of her cheeks from her husband’s arms. I see the drops of rain again on the window pane of this room, my feet sauntering in, sauntering out, closer to the bed they scrape, then further and further the gait. Drops and drops in slanting composure kiss the glaze – ah! What light caused the tower tonight! So out of modesty is the demeanor, they seek to disobey the design. Yet Tory, oh my Tory, purple voile under her negligee, her apparel a gingham dress in bottle neck green – how lush the verdure all over her! She is covered in the grasses of her lawn indeed. And on the lawn his feet! Does she see the drops, the same shower of rain come down stirring her core at the bottom, but foments it my blood into bubbles and foam. Violence, Tory – does she shake up herself into violence, so much and so much within her body bare on the surface. What is she doing to herself? Can you tell? Does she see that light not under the lamp post – art her eyes ransacking for the love of her husband in the auburn sheen of the headlights of his car; does she see that. But this that she does to herself, can’t you tell? I tell you does she see that – not the rain, but the hurricane of the mind coming at her heart; not the sweet drip drip drip of the drizzle at night, but the cacophony of thunder in her ears before the light in turquoise azure in the interstices of the stars over the Horizon who shine, a babel from God – Lackaday! So many tongues does her lover talk in, his pairs of lips in constant motion to my eyes as well – when was I this high on a drug? Him not one to mainline me, yet seduce will he both of us, Tory and me. This dark black, intense blue her blanket tonight, and all the other colors of a palimpsest in her daughter’s eyes, they split and meld in her daughter’s eyes – in the latter psychedelic paint of colors and colors beyond the spectrum of a vision of normalcy. Burgundy, lilac, pink and tangerine orange, pale red of some juicy Mango, white flesh of the sweet lime, pulp of peaches in her cup, plumps in mad red – ah! She will be loved tonight! He will love her tonight again! But what my fault mother? Too big am I for the chairs not to kick at my bosom and waist under the table at the kitchen; too big am I for me under this dining table to hide. Where will I hide when no longer thy lap to find? Mauve, shades not pastel, but dark-dark tones as beryl, cyan, red cum sepia yellow in tinge from some old page of my notebook – oh! How gross! How grotesque these mixtures of colors from obverse. But she will be loved tonight! Under the crack of the door now the shadow of his feet. A knock not yet, but a knock will be. Will she, will her way to him in this room? I am in this room. Save me my dear, I am in this room, by the corner of my bed and soon behind the rail of the stairs will I be. Save me for am I also in this room. Knock, knock, and knock did I hear the thunder resound, but she said “On the door he”; Knock! Knock! And Knock the thrust on the ply of the door, the crack no longer leading the light in – He is all there, he is here. Alas! But the boom, the boom so loud some light seeping in as his fists on the tension of the surface clench. Alas! How loud the sound of it! Alas! How louder will it be? He will love her too well tonight. So must you save me; someone save me for in this room am I. Hark me right I said. Hark me right I say! Save the soul, save the souls! I am in the room. She is in the room. Two bodies now, in one will we both hide soon. Save the bodies! Save her! I am in the room. She is in the room. Thwacks the door towards her, presses it against my skin almost. I will see it all. Save it all oh my God! Oh my God! “No desire! Oh no desire!’, I shout. I will see. I tell you I will see for I am in the room. She is in the room with me. Tory, Tory! Mother, mother! In my Tory you, in my Tory art you.