BLUE

    
   
   
“If you have been brutally broken, but still have the courage to be gentle to others, then you deserve a love deeper than the ocean itself.”              
— Nikita Gill            
             
             
the consistency of friday thirteenth            
-her life's continuous repeat              
rang chimes of church bells      
celebrating celestial sabotage        
in continually      
circulating circumstances        
             
drenched in wine, of fine vintage            
throwing fifteen year old corks              
in the air      
singing praises            
to her words      
while they cut his heart            
into wedges like a        
birthday cake covered            
in flowing colorful wax              
             
when no one blew the candles out            
           
he stares at the ceiling           
each cork, falling to            
open palms            
             
feet resting              
on desk top            
calendars;            
hair unbrushed            
face unshaved            
old clothes            
a fountain pen            
behind his ear            
             
he tried studying              
morse-code            
once;            
gave it up              
in his choice              
to speak phonetics            
and crosswords            
             
she, still hanging her head low            
staring at her feet in search            
of a silver lining around              
black waves in storm clouds;            
unsure as to where the dagger            
that stabbed the essence  
of her femininity            
came from, or why it            
lodged it's target's            
bulls-eye              
so deeply, penetrating            
every part of her humanity            
and young life            
-making for a crisis              
no man            
would understand            
             
well, except for            
the historic, blood on her hands            
(which wouldn't            
feature in the back page of a              
sunday newspaper           
in a one horse town)            
             
he untied the leather straps            
binding the hardcover journal              
reciting the calligraphy            
of his own hand            
out loud, for the world to hear            
             
"Whilst up in the top floor            
of that castle            
don't eat of an apple            
don't make yarn, on the spinning wheel            
keep yourself safe            
grow your hair            
             
when it's let down            
you can look up            
-the silver lining you search for            
is up in the sky            
             
this is as truthful            
as the inscription in the front cover            
of this book"            
             
gently lifting the book, she            
sucked smoke from her hookah          
while looking at the floor            
sighing              
             
blowing hazy clouds            
exploring fingers            
opening the cover            
to the forward...            
             
"you are The Mother Of Pearl            
your blues are            
a palette of wonders            
to explore      
with open palms            
- arms reaching              
to your constellations and            
star-soaked heavens."            
             
occasionally you get syrup            
when you think you bought            
             
honey            
             
other times it's an Asprin            
             
hearts know what they need            
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
 

Play me lonely, play me blue, be glad it's me my friend, not you.
 
Since you left, took the kids  
I'm sat in an all night bar  
I've hit the booze, I've hit this skids  
Not knowing where you are  
 
The blues pours softly down the walls  
From a decadent saxophone  
Forlorn trumpet muted calls  
To remind me I'm alone  
 
Pathetic, blousy, junkie whore  
Says she’ll ease my pain  
Wants my money, nothing more  
Makes that very plain  
 
Piano’s notes caress my ear  
The drummer soft he beats  
Lost everything I held dear  
Now walk the purple streets  
 
It’s four a.m. and here I am  
Heart bleeding on the floor  
I'm too drunk to give a damn  
So I'm leaving with the whore  

The blues just started with a sigh
Its sorce just a little time we did not have
The cool of when the embers burning glow
The gas turned down to very low
The turquoise ribbon in your hair
The summer day  
The cornflowers the springtime sway
How is the hue  that bonded me to you
Consuming everything  
For when he cheated so  
The SKY BLUE of our love turned to indigo
What whas azure blue now besmirched
The midnight blue was now my heart emmersed
The  long is now cut short
All at sea the tubulance as life up heaves
The waves of aquamarine when you leave
The shades of blue the saffire a gem true  
Not to fade, hold a value when a love renews

In eighth grade, she nailed on a pink shirt, a pale pastel      
and felt exposed to the future. It had been years pulling it out        
of the drain. She tied off a knit around the mess       
borrowed from her mother’s narnia. The wrapping and knot        
with limp arms like a lioness carrying her cub. Her idol        
graduated and visited, opened her flannel podshell:        
“Look at these things!” Unripe cheeks, a glance        
at the eyes in the plank, at slivers and cracks.        
She felt as if I could pass through them, in the uncertain gait        
of going backwards. Address it; the room that was pink.        
A dream dollhouse after the hurricane of limbs,        
teddybear called Queen, gum popping      
walls, roses without thorns claiming the daybed,        
Barbies given spikes, and dancing uniforms        
stuffed at the top- stretching to the toes,        
a dress of remains. It ran down the leg,        
the tenth not-birthday; heart dropping, pinking at the drain.        
They say grunge started with Cobain; it was us,        
the ones who could feminize, pinken, and demystify blue.

Rare is blue when you look too close
The sky’s an illusion,
and them flying blue things
have tiny protrusions
that refract the light m
but no kind of a pigment is used it’s true that even blue is nonexistent in eye colour
Another lack of pigment actually
So blue is a sly bugger
Unless you luck out find some lapis lazuli dug up
One of only two known natural blues in existence
Everything else is just a trick

His favorite pastime
- call it obsession, preoccupation,
call it what have you -
was his life's legacy
always revisiting, re-examining,
always angling, spinning and revising,
always,
aiming at constructing a more effective narrative...
Tonight he took on colors
- he thought he knew his well -
Black and white the early years...
Decades of rage certainly red...
Hues of grey dominated the rest...
Tonight, he finds the puzzle incomplete...
Tonight, he feels his painting is lacking texture...
"Where is the blue?", he mumbles to himself...
"I've often had and often have the blues...
Occasionally, I listen to the blues...
Once I attended a wedding dressed in blue
and most of my jeans are blue!"...
Tonight, he can't claim a blue period per se,
but, tonight, he's determined to weave
a hint, a notion, a wonder of a background blue...