Last Tango in Paris

This movie.
This. Movie.
Me.
Not me.
Me. Me.Me.
ME!!(Scream)
But you, were you Paul?
Or was I?
Who left?
And who fired that last, small bullet?
Or maybe. It hasn't been fired yet.
Maybe I was the woman.
Who never knew his name.
I did. But not really.
Like you. But not really.
Knew names.
But. not. really.
But.
I'm afraid to say the name.
Was. Am. Still.
Keeping realities seperate. No mixing of worlds.
Carefully avoid, that quicksand
Of feeling.
You.
I didn't say your name.
Until the realities collided.
No names.
No. Names.
Lost. Lost. Lost.
Microcosm of existence.
Physical.
And yet...not.

There is a subtle clogging between the ears, like noise growing sharp, prickly thorns and spreading like a cloud of stardust in a vortex. Inside.
Outside, there is sunlight and soap and fresh laundry on dry, green grass.
Running for hours on a yellow headache. Coughing.

Katcha

Some words only come with certain things you want to describe. How do I explain to him what rain-on-sweaty-dark-grey-roads-with-moist-dupattas-and-sodden-bleeding-newspapers is? And then, if I do explain to him, how do I explain to him why I want to go back to it?
The word "katcha". Raw. It changes the word "katcha". It hardens it, sharpens it, gives it edges. Katcha is so simple. It's of katchay apples, and katchi mitti, and katchay amrood. It's of katchay pattay and katchi roti. Simple. No paper cuts there. Language is of memory. And language is of instinct. Words are not the allignment of letters and punctuation, but a microcosm of a million circling flashcards in my head. When I say "katcha", these flashcards pause in midsentence, turn back, and suddenely, come rushing back to the same spot that I had once stood in. They collide. And a word is born.

How do I explain to you, the birth of me?
Tell me.
I want you to live the word. And the language. I want you to live me.

MarquisDeSade

Amidst the spokes of old, wooden wheels,
Tens and thousands of words weave in-and-out like ribbons.
Small birds and beetles of half-remembered fairytales
hover in a a little pouch of frozen time over wheel-broken dust.
Dreams and softness.
A child lightly places its fingers into the movement,
baby fingers of dreams and softness,
and the wheel slices its hand off with a perfect, clean pirouette.
Just blood.
Just. Blood.
And a ballerina.
Dancing...dancing...dancing...