Stuff

Stuff.
I write stuff.
In-your-face, sometimes.

Tantalizing, to myself.
Nerdy, to most.
Often, surreal, to all.

For, the meaning, the picture
Is hazy when seen through eyes
That do not own words.

See? You’ve got to see them
Then touch them just a bit
As you roll them round your tongue…

Feel that quiver perhaps when a tiny
Plosive sound echoes a heartbeat’s cry.

Bah! What’s that? You gag!
I’ve known terrorists you know,
The kind whose “plosive” *snigger snigger*
Sounds I’ve laughed away…

And you. You. You perhaps
Insinuate, I cannot fathom
The utter senselessness of
That word?

Which one? I ask.
You’re not sure, I can see.
Which plosive sound? Did I not
Just implode, with that suggestion?

And that is what I did mean.
A word like Love.
A word that cries.
A sound that smells
Of disdain.

Breath rushes out between
Half opened, sometimes closed lips
When you articulate. I beg you.
See.

Even when sounds defy
Phonetic seriousness
Not adhering to norms.
See.
Touch.
Taste.

When you listen.

And then, then only
Will I grant that you can
Read.

Stuff.

 

26 February, 2012
Online, on a silly line of thought