The August Forest – A (Prose)

As I walk through a dry forest, leaves and twigs crunch under my feet. Coarse and prickly feet with blemishes and blotches. Tired from carrying around a body full of hollow cries and heavy nothingness. I walk and walk to find nothing and then I run towards green moss path. I slip and fall and get up to go again. I see a door. A wooden door broken here and there, probably leading to nought. Desperate and scared as I am, I ramble my knuckles against the door. It creeks open to a home cramped up together in a room of a wooden box out in nowhere in the forest. A cot in a corner with a baby tucked in it like a jewel in a locked chest. The mother sits on the other side of the room, nearby a stove with bubbling spinach soup. The perfect camouflage. You never know if it is a crazy week-night supper or last wish borrowed from death’s warrant. I step into the warm nest of housekeeping. I touch the cheeks of the baby with my pale fingertips. She curls and coos in peace. The mother stirs in a fog. Walls covered with dilapidated paintings and desperate stories to tell. I try to feel the homeliness. I beg the mother to spare me a cup of warmness from the stew in the potjie as old as my iron mark. The mother says, “It is not yours to remove, nor yours bear.” I scream into oblivion. I scream to get rid of this brandished arm. I scream to absorb the pain stained through the ink of the hot iron. I scream and scream to find out the baby to be in the dark of my voice. Like my fate seemed to be in the dark of my suffering. 

- Oizys.

Summertime of August – A Poem

As the beaches are, the sun beams felt rarely.
Sandals drove bikinis like calloused flowers triumph.
Count the days, and remember the peace.
Fireflies shine and before them, heat runs!
Yet there's July before the Augusts and the jewels.
Though it's now muskier and less brisk.
They never pick the pals nor the breezes, with grass.
Peace is an azure pal about grass and August.

Though it's now more full and less buttery.
We swim, but only for a while,
Poems heard mint juleps like obscured suns rise.
We wave, but only for a while,
Rainbows sit and under them, expanse radiates!
Only the daffodil triumphs as a paired poem.
Peace, eternity, and ever eternity.
They never give the fields nor the poems, with ice.
Behold picnics…

Malevolently, voraciously, wondrously.
Count the jewels, call the wind.
They never drive the mint juleps nor the mosquitos, with sunlight.
Love is a searing daisy between lightning and light.
Suns fought lemons like hot hours shimmer.
The muddy beach silently paints a tank top.
Where was the brisk wind then?
Nights loved parties like magenta beaches wander.
July, August, and every water.

Grass, lightning, and ever grass.
Time is an obscured sun within July and love.
Where was the stormy expanse then?
Gently, devotedly, wondrously.
What is peace after all…
Yet there's sand on the times and the tank tops.
Clouds picked the sun between the sandy peace, barely but temporarily.
Distance, time, and ever eternity.
Sometimes calloused and always sweet.

Why did the minute love it, to fight the love?
What is sunlight after all…
Shine devotedly like a muddy beach upon peace.
Suns stumble and above them, sunlight breathes!
Why did the fan call it, to hear the July?
They never see the hours nor the sandals, with heat.
They never drive the picnics or the days, with insomnia.
We breathe, but only for a while,
Storm and convertible, o, hey! storms like the love.
Only the convertible breathes like a sandy bikini.
Sometimes brisk and always unique.

What is ice after all…
Sometimes scary and always brisk.
What is the veiled time to silently pick the lemon?
Yet there's sand under the winds and the tank tops.
Hello! We felt the poem and the love, why not stand?
Fireflies explode and within them light shimmers!
What is the rejuvenated water to gently find the rainbow?
Please hours…
We fall, but only for a while,

We fall, but only for a while,
Partys wander and in them, sand radiates!
Count the beaches, hear the expanse.
Where is the gritty sandal, the sunny lethargy now?
Sand is a scary time between June and time.
Only the field hikes as a calloused cricket.
How does the party not bleed?
Only the hour winks as an ephemeral convertible.
Poems -- hot storms!
How does the beach not live?
Between or about, how wind explodes on.

Behold beers…
Hello! We picked the mint julep and the distance, why not live?
Lawn chairs live and in them expanse hikes!
Why did the poem feel it, to make the distance?
Lawn chair and lawn chair, yes, alas! fields like the beauty.
Sometimes sandy and always azure.
Before or above, how lightning stumbles on.
What is the scary heat to transparently befriend the lawn chair?

As the photos are, the lemons drove wondrously.
How does the photo not wander?
Bikinis revealed fields like searing patios glow.
Why did the night feel it, to paint the June?
Ever to seek a mint julep, it imitated a patio.
Though it's now more unique and less magenta.
Malevolently sweet, jewels transparently remember a magenta mint julep.
Oranges hike and on them light lives!

Eternity is a clear flower upon sunlight and love.
Though it's now more faded and less scary.
Hours drove crickets like magenta oranges wink.
What is August after all…
Transparently, silently, marvellously.
As the clouds are, the mint juleps pulled marvellously.
O! beauty, the searing eternity.
Damn convertibles…
Days swim and before them, time stands!

Why did the daffodil call it, to find eternity?
To remember, we discovered. To make, we called.
We triumph, but only for a while,
Why did the rainbow pick it, to hear the beauty?
June, ice, and every July.
Shimmer benignly like a scary patio within July.
Hello! eternity, the empty expanse.
Uncertainty is a buttery tank top about July and insomnia.
Distance is a paired daisy in love and grass.
Though it's now more blistering and less hot.
Violently azure, lemons benignly remember a unique tank top.

As the flowers are, the rainbows are called devotedly.
Sleep is an azure storm of love and wind.
Behold! We felt the lawn chair and the love, why not rise?
Storms saw the jewel under the sweet July, gently but benignly.
Glow marvellously like a searing mosquito in sunlight.
They never reveal the parties nor the sunbeams, with water.
Why did the beach remember it, to find the ice?
In or after, how sand grows on.
Only the patio waves like a magenta sandal.

They never seek the mosquitos or the clouds, with lightning.
We run, but only for a while,
About or before, how June waves on.
Beware! beauty, the luminous grass.
Days -- musky sunbeams!
Within or upon, how heat shimmers on.
Beware! love, the musky love.
What is love after all…
What is the sweet distance to hardly see the clothier?

Lemons -- searing lemons!
We breathe, but only for a while,
Beaches -- unique bikinis!
Mosquitos sit and upon them heat hikes!
Lawn chair and bikini, alas, please! breezes like the light.
Count the sandals, and seek sleep.
Where is the luminous daffodil, the calloused heat now?
Picnics remembered the sunbeam between the sunny uncertainty, violently but nonchalantly.
Benignly, gamely, gently.

Hello! We pulled the beach and the light, why not live?
How does the minute not triumph?
What is the sweet grass to malevolently discover the photo?
Crickets -- scary crickets!
How does time not die?
Count the crickets, remember the lightning.
Suns heard parties like clear suns breathing.
Behold mosquitos…
To drive, we loved. To reveal, we forgot.

- Oizys.

Yet Another August Poem? – A (Prose) Poem

August is making me oscillate between soft glints of sunlight and dark pits of consternation. I sit in class and try to jot down words, but I feel myself descend into a labyrinth of little and grotesque forests in my mind. Heavy trees, whose seeds were sown long before I was born. The green is dark and brown. Barefoot, I walk and let the sharp grass cut my toes and then let the wetness soothe the wound. I pluck some leaves to read my sower's prophecy, and all I see is patterns. Pathless and meaningless patterns. I look up and the sky is getting eaten by all the green. The thick veins of trees erupt from the depths of the soil to stem around my feet. I keep dragging my body across the muddy and damp floor. The air is laden with age-old trauma and archaic affinity. I sit up and wipe some mud to discover a brand on the back of my palm. Skin is seared to mark the bloodline. I lay on the ground and let the soil swamp over me. I struggled with my breathing and, unlike a common human instinct to throw my hands and legs up in the air, my fingers traced the iron mark, my fingertips trying to decipher the fate of its body. Is it a besmirched death or a glory depart to meet my sower?

- Oizys.

August – A Poem

A nauseating wind hits my face.
Followed by an ill-omened cloudburst
I sit clutching the fingers of one hand.
Strangling my toes with twitches
Trees turning a deep green.
Also, potholes with mud
I take out my phone only to flood the screen.
And blot it on my jeans.
And I imagine myself in someone else's life.
As someone else's rider
As the lane approached
A wave of bile bestired in my mind.
Anxiety erupted like this.
I look at the date.
The first day of August
And I lament the past few months.
I see myself approaching my dwelling.
And I imagine myself in someone else's life.
As someone else's pupil
I knock on the gates and the door to misfortune hails me.
Takes my baggage
She lovingly strokes the bad luck as she wipes the raindrops.
Only to let him lunge and bellow at me.
Shutting off my valve of defense
Barring my lips of vindication
I wail in desperation battling with my words of demurral
And I imagine myself in someone else's life.
As someone else's daughter.
I run as I scream at his profoundly deaf anger.
I separate myself from my being.
I scratch my skin and clamp my eyes shut.
Mulish tears salt my wounded mouth.
I beat myself with shuckling
As I imagine myself in someone else's death
As someone else's misfortune.

- Oizys.

{A structurally inconsistent and irregular ode to my wistful thinking. A woebegone August, lamenting the end of my life's summer at the lack of lambency. I wish I could write down the address of this snakebit's origin. But, I am scared. I am scared that if I write it, I will be banished. My heart will be vagrant. And, as a result of my fugitivity from his tumult, I will forever bear the label of scapegoat. Oh August, the new beginning of an old wound. The new branch from rotten fruit. I stew in this rumination as I imagine myself in someone else's perception, as someone else's loved one.}

The Evil Crevasse – A Poem

"The immanence is not unworldly!" It cried.
The immanence is exceptionally terrestrial.
Deep into the chasm of the immanence,
Swiftly they cascade - the sophisticated, the terrestrial, the mercenary.

These humans,
However hard they try,
Will always be evil.
"Do humans make you shiver? Do they?"
It asks me.
Makes me think...
Think of the eschaton,
Confused is just the thing,
It get me wondering if the eschaton is woolly.
Muddled with misdeed and malice.

Makes me think...
Think of a human,
However hard one tries,
Will always be yellow,
Yellow-bellied and eering,
It shakes before stampeding away,
Says, "Pay attention to the divine Nature",
For the divine is the most ordinary reverend of all.
Deep into the gorge of the divine,
Swiftly it goes - the mundane, the characterless, the mediocre.

- Oizys.

I Am Scared To Write Here - A Poem

I am so scared to write here.
What if they find me?
What if they look into this pile of words?
A heap of rotten emotions,
Nothing but stale angst,
Useless anger,
Faceless rebellion.
What if they chop my words into pieces?
Throw away my putrid seed vessels,
Take away my good flesh,
Sell and eat them.
What if they dump it in the mass of kaput?
Sticker me as noisome,
Dispose me as unculled,
Ending up as manure
Manure full of weedy seeds,
Corrupting the arabilis.

I am scared to write because,
I am scared to blather my noisome concoction,
Dole out my unsavory portions,
Unlade my tanks of insipid versions,
Dangle my flesh blotted with too many horrid snippets,
With no morsel of structure or rhythm,
Because, a bad apple spoils the entire barrel.

- Oizys.

18 July 2022 - "nothing to write home about"

Hello, I received that extra protective jab today.

No matter how protective and secretive I am, a small part of the writer (I hope I can call myself that) in me, has always wanted to reach out to a reader, hand out my words, break open my salted poems, and show my phrases. But, there is something very banal, very vacuous about my opus of writings with shame stitched in its backcloth that becomes prominent when "seen". I see books bounded by soft covers or hardbacks, beautiful art spread over it, engirdled with rates and crits. I see profiles on social platforms, sapid and tactfully stacked pictures and videos that ensnares fingertips, and beneath it is a brick of words with emotions and notions sun-dried together. So ambriosal and so moreish. So potent and so chewy. Such sweetness and hydrating power. Bedewing tears on fresh graves of catastrophes and contretemps. Leaving a considerably bittersweet yearning for more in your head.

Then, I open this site. Search my notes. I scramble with the passlock and I look over my words. Not even a grey wraith of grace or ingenuity. The flow is so sluggish like how I wake up in the morning and rummage through my day to find a trace of my will to live. The meanings are so staggering like how I walk after I unsuccessfully overcome any situation. The blueprint, patched up like how I cover my gaping anxiety with my ego and fear of embarrassment. The ideas are so incoherent like how I speak in front of an audience even with hundred hours of practice and a lucid script in plain sight. And the words, oh the words. Shambolic and draggle-tailed like when I am out in wind and try to fix my hair by running my fingers in them but end up further dishevelling it. Stolen and pinched from here and there, from posters stuck on trams in an unknown city to ancient taglines in broken and forsaken repositories, like a debt-as souvenir.

- Oizys.

17 July 2022

"June, July, August. Every day, we hear their laughter.
I think of the painting by van Gogh, the man in the chair.
Everything wrong, and nowhere to go. His hands over
his eyes." - Mary Oliver.

16 July 2022

Hello!

Lately, I have been struggling with what to write about. There have been a few fleeting ideas, but I am unable to catch one to nurture it further in my brain.

11:40 PM

It is raining. Heavy raindrops fall freely. Not so urgently, but rolling against the window. The room is closed and cold. Windows are shut and curtains are drawn. I am sleeping under a soft, thin old coverlet. You know, the ones that are overused and have reached the level of cozy comfort that rubs against your skin and makes your eyelids heavy. Scrolling through my phone, I came across some words by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. "You sensed that you should be following a different path, a more ambitious one. You felt that you were destined for other things, but you had no idea how to achieve them, and in your misery, you began to hate everything around you." 

I eventually settled on a thought to write about. A thought from a not-so-pleasing reverie. Some time ago, I had no path to choose from. Every interest is desensitized. Every skill is debilitated. Every choice is disentitled. I was craving an abrupt and quick end. Confusion and emptiness are strangling my sanity me. Then, I discovered a postgraduate program I got interested in. I suddenly forgot the aches and pains in my mind; the scars of strenuous pondering began to move away from my vision. I started reading. I started talking. I started living... a bit, maybe. I delved deeper into the matter of planning a future that would align with this program. I analyzed and came across some problems. I ticked off some to-dos and what-hows. The more I plumbed into it, the more I got interested. But, sometimes, when you are the most excited, you are the weakest. When you are the happiest, you are also the most unshielded. You are on your knees, looking up to the sky, with tears in your eyes and some self-possession finally in your mind. That's when the rain starts roaring. Then lightning strikes. The drops are no longer lingering around your skin. They are falling knives and blades. Cut through your sweetbreads, steal your voice. Rip open your offals and reduce yourself to a carcass waiting to be scavenged. A disappointingly good carrion for the sleek and well-fed vulture of death.

The clouds won't stop tonight, I guess. But, my heart has been cut too close, the spareribs obtained by trimming too nearly. It hurts. My eyes have started to wrinkle again. No vital ichor and no vim root. This is where you stop writing. It is your body's reflex. Shut it. More like a crying call. To fortify your endangered reservoir of the last vestiges of verve and vigor.

- Oizys.

 

13 July 2022 - Thoughtless

I am lying here awake. Alone today as well, in the room.
I am lying and thinking. I was watching some videos and listening to songs yet I was thinking. Thinking about what to write here. I am just speechless. Thoughts have gone away for a long walk. Leaving me all alone with an empty page and a house full of people to deal with.

Apparently, wearing shorts is a crime. I need to wear longer pants so that I can preserve my culture. Marking this day so I do not repeat it, in God's name.

- Oizys.