In these profound solitudes
under mournful half-moon light -
the bleed-through color of contradiction
stains my skin with silence.

Only I could hear
The sound of breeze stirring through open glass
mouths gaping as winds of reality pass
cool and damp as snakeskin creeping
breathing on panes of not and now.

Only I could stretch
through reflections in blackened waves,
pull back curtains of apprehension
to resolve the small secrets
which hold us to rituals.

Only I could inhale
the mist of verbena vapours
after all the candles are blown out.
The sweet and invisible narrative
which carved my existence.

words © malai carrara

They require compliance
in matters of tradition.
Beholden we are to these burdens
and cling to them as a boa constrictor would -
slowly choking themselves on each respire.

We take our place in the mindfuck spectacles
spent, empty and feeling nothing.
What prevailing grief we feel lets out slowly
and stains the killing floor in silence.
I think of the blood from slaughtered domestic stock
and it’s unending spate leading to nothing and nowhere.

Damaged souls we are -
mindlessly consuming our own flesh.
Scouring floors and visiting the medicine cabinet for relief.
A salve for our scraped knees.
A tonic for our misdirected fortitude,
A fast dissolve capsule to numb all discounting from our purpose.
We hardly recognize ourselves.
And yet, all the answers linger
On this side of the reflection
just slightly out of reach.

words © malai 2012

Walls, nice walls..
architecturally sound, safe and secure surfaces
where worries are discarded and all is happy.
Walls, nice walls....
and painted fences, pruned hedges and a 3-car attached garage.
The cozy, bug free paradise and a fat mortgage suffocating choices.
Walls, nice walls...
a pretty suburban prison for dwellers already quiescent
confined to all that is their beautiful.
Perfect yards and well organized places to collect things
and save them ...just in case.
How quick we discount muted songs of grassy fields
the smell of rain....the snap of autumn
and the last leaves clinging to their branches.
We black out the voice of authenticity
for walls, nice walls.
A clinical surface to stop bacteria and dirt.
Welcome the superbug.
Are we really better off
shrink wrapped
surrounded by all our stuff
and dodging flying bananas?

words © malai carrara
image by daniela edburg

I love the color pink
This muted shade of blaze,
Which under unlit sanctuary becomes
a whimsical suggestion.
It is a playful spice the scent of which
Heats my sequestered recollections
Youthful frolic and chattering
until secret images came to be
When speaking to mariposa blossoms
entered into dialogue with pixies
and needling through clover discovered 4-leafed magic.
We were the Star Bellatrix serenade wishing for flight.
and when covering our eyes invoked invisibility.

words © malai carrara

I watched how the slant of winter sun Glinted off your skin
Languishing and exhausted
The weight of sleep was so deep from last nights loving
That you were colourless
On another day you become the stranger
shifting between two languages
one word for antiquity
one word for forthwith
and both written on twisted pages
with no other predetermined course
all your yesterdays experiences carefully mapped to the minute.

With the haze of the morning my arms goose pimple
It is the wind’s objective to pass
through the fretwork of our lives to an inevitable destination.
Soon the affection will temper into an exchange of incidental interests
when you begin to watch the time.
It’s time to go
For all one knows, none of this is real
For all one knows, I am the ghost

words © malai carrara

In this asylum of the nouveau riche
You may watch them as they congregate
First one, then two
Each wearing fall lulu lemon uniforms
and tapping their artificial nail tips across their smart phones
preoccupied with weight loss
and in awe of their microdermabrasion results
holding so tightly to the last years of their squandered youth
It was a kinship of lawn gnomes
Emotionless and apathetic 
I was reminded of window mannequins
And imagined knuckle draggers Lifting them from pose to posturing 
While simultaneously preparing their own camouflage and orange uniforms
for their November hunts
Occasionally they will leave the garage door open
Likely to release the congestion Of lawn fertilizer, beer bottle empties and mini van exhaust
The lawn gnomes lament of loveless marriages
While their immigrant nannies entertain their feral children
A teacher was fired for issuing a zero grade For incomplete schoolwork
Apparently there is a no-fail policy
And I strain to find something to reassure me
That our future is not doomed
But I fever and imagine
My own body blowing up In a fiery crash
with an ATV

words © malai carrara

It is seldom we have the chance to observe snow geese
on their migratory path and preparing to land.
In the agitation of honking hankerchiefs It came to me -
This is how it must feel to be standing In the middle of a snow globe
Waiting for all the my dust to settle Around me.

Composure on the lake surface comes quickly
Like an achromatic bed sheet
They become shiftless and silent.
You might even overlook them
If it wasn’t for their almost unbearable whiteness
Even the irritating slap of November
And her indefatigable pursuit to carve her place To impose her will
Isn’t enough to deflect my attention From this.
Inaudible to anyone
childlike and believing I can hold time
I say - Stay just a minute more

Another passed me today wearing them
An infinite string of sanitary orbs in perfect placement.
Pearly delights disguised as order.
I imagine there is something about their iridescence that feels clean
Like the bathtub
And she wears them with delight quietly passing them over her teeth
Believing the tedium is easier to endure
But it’s to meager a crumb
they lack substance
And taste like grief.
I hope There will come a time when she considers spitting them out.
Only when your mouth is free of fake
can your lips can know the flavor of lucid.

 written by malai carrara

Once
beholden to ghosts of tradition
indentured monotony gripped like tangled roots
A future tragedy echoing from each appliance
and weeping stained the floor like ink.
I thought to make peace with this woman
Spitting back – hurry, you haven’t much time
Once
The shards of plastic drain you
Your mind will begin decomposing
flee the common, the smell of dark
Shed the scales of masquerade and
Finally reject what was
Once words © malai carrara