Archive for the story Category

Revision (2005-)

Posted in dug up stuff, story on March 2, 2008 by chamome

From darkness sprung,

And devils plucked

From lines of ‘no’

And bugs below

The belt which bite.

Yes, I was saved

By Beauty and

A youth worker

And also by:

The angel of

The Clinic of

Things that say: ‘I

Fucked up my Life

In the night-time.’

And she spoke so:

‘You are still young,

Not yet a man-

Yet not a boy.

My little man,

How has it been

Living like you?

Twice tested clear

Yet can you smile.

But badly of

Yourself think you?

So seemly bright

In smile and mind.

So seemly charged

Behind closed door.

Your beauty falls

Far short of mine,

As angel I;

Still can I see

With ease how you,

Like spilt sweet zone,

Attract the bees,

The bitter wasps,

The mindless ants.

They flock to you,

Through dirt they creep,

To taste, and bring

Your sweetness home

In words of lust,

To others droned-

A testament

To their great power:

They sniffed you out

And smelt your youth,

Destructive power.

They planned it out

And learned by heart

Just how to make

Good sense depart

Your clothes depart,

(Though some with less

Did find their fill.)

My little man,

Can not you see

How dull your blade

Shines out in depths

So low that no

Star can there reach?


But tell me child,

Do badly of

Yourself think you?’

So spoke she and,

Content in self

And quite relaxed,

She waited for

The right reply

That swiftly came

Though through closed eyes:

‘I thought I sought

What they would give.

I thought, then sought

What they did give.

And all the time,

I wondered how,

Despite my plans,

They had me so.

Dear angel mine,

Thank you for this.

I can now tell

How low I am.’

My angel smiled

And took her phial,

Her needle too,

And took my blood.

And as she took

This did she chat:

‘So say you that

You read the Arts?

My daughter too

Does study them.

You seem alike,

Strange thing, to me.’

In quiet mind

I did reply:

‘Let’s hope it ends,

The likeness, there.

What mother would

Say of her child:

“She seems alike

To you dear boy

With needled arm

With fears of death

Or puss or lack

Of any child.”

Bad blood, for what?

“Oh yes, my own

Is much like you.”

What mother such

Would stain her child?’

A thoughtful hum

Was my reply.

As I thought back

Some seven months,

The white room died

Like faded shine,


Quite gone in time.

But in a beat

To me it seemed

And walking through

A sleepy town,

I found myself,

From work to school

But not my own.

The day was hot,

Men beaten down

By sunshine beams

Renewed in Spring-

Heatwave in March,

The twenty-third.

I remember

Two spoons taken

From humble home

And ice cream bought,

To my new friend

I sped my walk.

First thing was to


About our clothes.

My bloodied jeans

Just fake blood from

Anna attack.

His what-he-wore

‘My clothes are packed

Ready for home.’

‘And where is that?’


You know we are

Illegal there.’

And off we set

The heavy sun

Did make more strong


With light and smell-

His scent which could

Full knock me down

With sick desire.

And as we walked

Our dialogue

From mums, to sun,

To plays, to sex

Did swiftly flow.

Cookies n’ cream

Our favourite

Food and toy soon

Became and all

Because likeness

Was established

With it and all

The other small


Tastes and foibles

That make a match.

Most of that time

We were alone

And mixing our

Minds ever more

And ever more

Till it would be

So fucking hard

To say goodbye.

“How could you lie

So easily

To me, your own?”

“That you with ease

So deftly put

To hear them all

And gorged yourself

On syllables

Struck on my chords

Not thinking of

The words they made.”

The white room lived

As memory

Caught up with life.

Each word became

A needle thread

Through my bled heart

And on each thread

Red drops did slide

To fill my heart

Back up again.

But shame! The shame.

This heart had holes

Through which his words

Fell fast and stained

My childish soul.

I cannot bear

To patch anew

What depths my mind

Resorted to.

With present passed

I can assume

Subconscious fault.

My god, his eyes…

I don’t want to



painting with my words (2005)

Posted in dug up stuff, story on March 2, 2008 by chamome

khanaïah uhn noeti mor

zhinaïab ahni nakhbarsehn i

ehka! sammu zíkhemme ahna

khanaïah uhn noeti mor


goh iya ih nemakhan soha

ihmme kalan tomik jariehn i

libmeh tomik iyen jariki

tamah ihlak tamah, karas ko


goh iya ih nemakhan soha

ihmme kalan jari tomikehn i

libmeh jari iyen tomikki

tamah ihlak tamah, karas ko


nehm si namab karas koehn i

pezhi sammu ah ya ehn i ya

ya i ehn ya ah sammu pezhi

i koehn karas namab si nehm


tamah zakas ohi nemahna

ihmme ehn soha kalanehn i

goy iya ih nemakhan soha

tamah ihlak tamah, karas ko


ehka! sammu zíkhemme ahna

khanaïah uhn noeti mor

libmeh tomik iyen jariki

libmeh jarik iyen tomikki


karas ko, tomik jariehn i

jari tomikehn i, karas ko