Size 37

“I am a duck, Mr. Jacques.

I may seem calm on the surface,
but I struggle with my feet
to stay afloat,
to breathe.

I am here to ask your daughter’s foot in marriage.
I’m in love, Mr. Jacques,
with her,
with her feet.

She goes barefoot I know,
but I say she is free
of oppressive flip flops, sandals and heels.
Freedom causes blisters, monsieur,
and that’s how she walks in my sleep.
She walks on mud, on fiery hot coals
and I look at her feet
knowing she sees the holes in my sole.
She has arches, curves, fragility, and scent
while my duck feet are just bland!

How she plays and displays,
preens herself and fusses over them,
until I’m ready enough to kneel,
so that she may thrust her arrow
right into my Achilles’ heel.”

No.

Gibberish

I am aroused by every syllable escaping her lips

She talks in riddles
She mumbles the truth
She exhales, I inhale
The pothole of a junkie

A shattered skeleton, I fall
A disabled man, I fall
A modern Sisyphus, I fall

Rise !!
We will rise as the sun sets !
We are creators and the night breeds creativity, so meet me under the moonlight and leave your mask at home

Home is where the hurt is
Do look back but don’t stare for too long..
Now close your eyes and breathe

Breathe slowly..

She pours out herself in the darkness
She moans the truth, her truth
I whisper the truth, my truth

A revived skeleton, I stand !
A disabled man, I stand !
A modern Sisyphus, I stand !!

Now shut your mouth against mine, for there is no truth; ONLY gibberish..

Thus spoke IbnRishde

The Performer #1

The feeling strikes you as soon as the play is over, as soon as the crowd starts applauding. It is the feeling of both mourning and despondency combined, a feeling that no matter how many times you have experienced before you still go through it as if for the first time, each time. The sound of applause is the sound of rain on the man’s funeral day, the character you have just left behind. You know you cannot (and if you can, you are not allowed to) take the character with you backstage or anywhere. Whatever is beyond the platform is a transcending universe that the fictional character (the role you played) cannot reach. Once you are aware of that the mourning begins.

The actor mourns over his character each time the lights go out and the curtains close. It is when the character dies and the nausea strikes you. This is like no other mourning you have ever heard of. It is the mourning of the soul over the body. For those few hours, your body represented him and not you.  You were the soul of a fictional character that was animate and breathing. Camus was right when he wrote that “the actor’s realm is that of the fleeting. Of all kinds of fame, it is known, his is the most ephemeral.” Something dies every time the lights go out.

Someone who is not familiar with such an art would think that each time the actor performs the same role again, the same fictional character will be resurrected. But it is not so, the character dies every night, and the soul is detached from the body every night for the first time.

The actor is also despondent. He always feels as though it was over too soon or that he could have given the character a better life. He becomes the mother who has failed her only child. It is with guilt and regret that he goes down the stairs leaving the platform. The actor is a usurper soul that infiltrates a body and fails to live up to it – always, each time. And there is nothing he can do about it – a sense of helplessness poisons him. Here, maybe, the actor is much like Sisyphus. The end of the play is the moment the rock rolls back down from the top of the mountain.

Driven by anxiety, it starts with the most ridiculous thing that is soon transformed into a masterpiece… but repeatedly the actor is faced with unfortunate events that deviate him (the character’s soul) from the path of the body (for a moment you are out of your character and your actual body and you see yourself as a third person), mistakes occur and the acting (the becoming) is never complete.

How nostalgic and miserable an actor must be, constantly in mourning, constantly suffering from failure.

© Chris Khatchadourian and World of Gauche, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Chris Khatchadourian and World of Gauche with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Smoke

If I knew what she wanted, I would’ve told her

She lights a cigarette

Smoke fills her lungs

Clouds gather inside her head

She sees nothing

She hears nothing

She speaks nothing

She knows nothing

But she is everything

Everything…

The universe, the stars, the eternal recurrence

The love that revives and kills

The breath which poisons and arouses

The force which destroys and builds

Everything…

 

And as I drift away, I always find my way back

Smoke.. I can smell her getting closer

Smoke tangles with her breath.. the scent of lust and love

The scent of freedom and slavery

I walk on her waters, I drown every time

The painful lust

The sinking anchor

I look at her. I ask her “What do you want?”

 

She lights a cigarette

Smoke fills her lungs

Clouds gather inside her head

She sees nothing

She hears nothing

She speaks nothing

She knows nothing

But she is everything

Everything…

Nebula

Walking on the sands trotting the idle waters,
I noticed locks of hair strolling frolicked a few paces away
She turned to me, and to my surprise,
She had not two but countless eyes !

Eerie, I know ! But mystic she was,
I noticed her lips, glossy ends, so I started speaking,
I asked about her peculiar stare into the ocean
She said she was glancing at the edge of the world
Impossible ! Perplexed my complexion ! But how?
She pointed at some of her eyes,
With an arched eyebrow I thought to myself
That it would be a mess to get her glasses
While she told me that she preferred pants to dresses

Her scent, her touch, weird, intriguing,
Akin turtles swaying on a Saturday night,
I’m glad I met this girl with many many eyes,
But what would happen if she bursts and cries ?

Who Are You?

Who are you?

A poet that plays the guitar.

Who are you?

A poet that writes bad poetry and hopes for the best.

Who are you?

A poet that is waiting for the rapture.

Who are you?

A poet that listens to people’s bullshit and stays silent.

Who are you?

A poet that thrives and grieves in isolation.

Who are you?

A poet that knows and understands.

Who are you?

A poet that stays in-between, belongs on the margins.

Who are you?

A poet which is not a poet.

Who are you?

A poet that looks at idiocy and has to endure the fools in this long walk of life.

Who are you?

A girl. A Fascist in life.

Who are you?

A visionary with an apocalyptic mind.

Who are you?

An anti-poet.

Are you who you think you are ?

I am who I know I am.

I am the girl with the transcendental views about you.

I am the poet that uses what you tell me against you.

I am nobody and everybody dissected on the wide space that covers my face.

Look at you… Look at me… Can’t you see yourself through me?

Can’t you see who YOU are?

Jessy Jameson

Before the moon touches her shoulder, Jessy Jameson rushes into the nearest pub

She pours and drinks in search for balance

But alcohol only offers an illusion of balance

The balancing act she performs while sitting on the bar stool resembles the big blue marble circling the star of flames.. Thus chaos

Her balancing act spreads chaos around the universe !!

The glass of Jameson sits on her palm like a baby rests in a cradle

However, she is not aware of the chaos

She drinks in peace

She.. is in tranquil chaos

She is madness and affection

Jessy Ann Jameson is one with this chaotic universe..