No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
We were in a tiny cottage filled with witchy things: crystals, voodoo dolls, dream catchers, Ganesha, Mother Mary, chakra charts, black magic signs, happy buddhas, laughing buddhas, fat buddhas, skinny buddhas, buddhas with no hands, buddhas with one hand in prayer.
Oh, but how easy it is to turn your eyes for a moment and set your course in a direction not intended.
Basically I’m trying to get all the poems out of my “teeming” brain before I die.
You will know that The Invisible Man (2020) is a great horror film once you mumble to yourself, halfway through, something along the lines of ‘I didn’t see this coming’.
I trailed closely behind my grandmother as she strode confidently through the crowded lanes, trying desperately not to lose sight of her bright orange sari. She was heading to the jewellery store, and I knew that I was in for a boring afternoon. The gold necklaces and earrings which fascinated her to no end somehow only made my eyes glaze over.
My mother was still teaching me how to spell my name after kindergarten. I was learning Spanish all over in a country that spoke English, which I also had to learn.