prose is just an edited version of this post because i couldn't be bothered. the poetry was basically written in bits on my phone during the class itself (sent it to myself via telegram) then edited. hz9101 was one of the easiest mods ive ever taken and it's totally worth it for the free A
the
war is over
--
Emerging from the safe houses into the quiet
devastation, they breathe in tendrils of regret.
We
should have sucked the marrow from its bones. We should have wrapped our legs
around it and rode it until we collapsed. We should have squeezed it for all it
was worth and made it our own. We have made war into a joke.
You,
me, all of us.
This
is what we have made.
--
ONE
They shield their eyes, unaccustomed even to the weak,
filtered rays of true light. This is the
outside? they ask. It's so big. It's so strange. Mum, did people go outside all the time back then? What was it like?
Nearby, a child not yet five nudges half a skull with
his foot. The orange sky flares again above him.
They say the war is over.
Really?
a little boy asks, his pale face conveying a sense of confused scepticism. He
doesn’t know what he’s asking, but the mouths of babes do not lie.
In time, the orange sky turns purple. They stand in
the sulphuric aftermath, trying to make sense of this strange new world, where
is there no more war.
Come
on, a mother says, tugging at her child's shirt. Let's go back. There's nothing left here.
Her words echo in the silence. They watch silently as her child follows her
back into the safe house that they have lived in for the past four years.
They do not come out again.
They are told that the war is over.
It
must be a lie. It’s always a lie. You can't trust anyone nowadays. The
government has sold us out. We should go back, it's not safe.
The war is over?
Mummy?
Don't cry. Let's go back. If you're scared outside then let's go back.
They stand in the toxic light, taking faltering steps
towards one direction and then moving backwards again, searching for something
intangible that no longer exists. This is not their world. Everything is wrong.
The sky consumes itself in fire.
The war is over.
--
In the decades to come, steel boxes are unearthed in
the grey snow.
Hey
Steve, come here, there’s still some of those old relics lying around. Maybe we
can sell it, this stuff is expensive. Steve! There's a ton of it just sitting
here! Shit, we just won the lottery!
Loud banging. A small but powerful motor starts
humming. Metal begins to melt under its knife.
Pause. Silence.
He pries open the lump of metal. In the darkness, he
sees nothing but bones.
The war is finally over.
TWO
The sun burns vividly orange in the horizon, as if it has been set on fire and left to spread. Waving
fumes of purple making their way across the horizon and reaching into the lungs
of the people standing dazed and quiet in the aftermath.
The war is over.
The war that has taken over their lives for twelve
years is finally over.
They breathe in the sulphuric air and try to be happy. Yet as they
exhale, their eyes roam over the ruined concrete, so familiar and foreign. They remember it as it used to be: glorious skyscrapers
that they had built with their own hands. Tall buildings as proud as their
architects, each one a Tower of Babel.
What a shame, they think.
Now the skyline is vast and empty. Now all their
accomplishments have been wiped clean.
Their hands quiver, unsure of what they want to reach for.
Was there anything left to grasp? In the span of a single war, their skin has
turned papery and white, wrinkles marking new territory. A single war and they
have missed their prime.
Should they have done more? Tried harder, struggled
more vigorously?
Broken buildings line the broken streets. Pieces of
glass crunch under their feet.
Of course not. There was nothing that they could have
done. They
were only civilians, innocents caught in a war with nowhere to run. They were only trying to live their lives as best as they
could.
All this destruction has nothing to do with them.
--
The war is over.
What a relief, they think. All those nights spent
behind bolted steel alloy doors, crouching under their beds and hoping that
they, at least, would survive. Praying that the bombs, if there were any, would
miss just this safehouse. It was enough to survive.
It was fine to be the only survivors.
They were only civilians, after all. Victims – and now
survivors.
--
They band together, naturally, and share the rations that they had
hoarded so jealously before. The war is over now; there is nothing more to
fear.
The ash falls around them like grey snow, forming a thick carpet
on the ground. The sky, no longer orange, now burns a dull purple.
Soft conversation echo in the night. It sounds hopeful, cautiously
optimistic. There are things to be done, things that they could do now that the
war has ended.
They propose taking stock of the rations, reorganising and
apportioning each family a fair amount. They suggest consolidating efforts in a
central area, perhaps even an administration space. The volunteers, of course,
would receive more rations for their selfless undertaking. It would be helpful
to scavenge the surroundings for useful materials, too, to barter or trade with
if they met any others.
How enterprising of them, they think. They could rebuild society,
right here, right now, with this paltry group of survivors. They had everything
they needed: planners and labourers, ex-architects and former administrators.
They could do it.
As night falls, the conversation takes on a distinct tone of excitement.
--
The survivors. The civilians, the bastions of society. They forge
on, industriously seeking to better themselves and their circumstances.
It is no different in times of war, and no different when the war
is over.
Did you truly think these civilians were innocent?
--
In the months that follow, the survivors flourish.
Labourers toil under the bright sunlight as the ash clears from
the sky and the sun turns yellow again. Day in, day out, their sweat builds the
foundations of their new society. The planners sit in the shade and put all
their mind to optimising the layout of the new roads.
They call it leadership. Division of labour. Management.
In time, the buildings grow taller. In time, technology begins to
advance again.
In time, the children grow up and go to school. They study and
they take tests. They learn about the history of the war, as well as useful
skills to improve what the see around them. The smart ones become architects
and inventors. The others are labourers.
Still, they call it efficiency.
Eventually, even the stock market revives itself. Society is every
bit as sophisticated as it was before the war. Everything is well.
The war could begin anew.
--
Yes, this is what we have made.
You, me, all of us, hand in complicit hand.
title:
one and the same
one and the same
1.
to segue, perchance to be
2.
coffee addict
3.
interlude: you ask and I answer
4.
sly scheherazade with your dessert
1.
to segue, perchance to be
milk segues into cafe latte segues into coffee
as i segue into adulthood
heavy-handed proclamations of maturity
ties into bonier hands and slimmer faces
ties into brittle bones and eventual wrinkles
ties into the pain of letting go:
not innocence, not childhood
but of life, when one by one they leave me
as i leave them
as we all leave
as the leaves fall to the ground
the autumns of my life
an endless loop of good things gone to rot
missed primes and withered fruit
missed lovers and missing loves
missing my dear dead parents
at peace in the ground
my coffee segues back into milk
i forget all the bitter things
time seems faster this time round
one day i am the parent
tranquil and six feet under
2.
coffee addict
you:
a hopeless coffee addict;
the caffeine thrumming in your veins,
little hummingbird heartbeats.
bitter scent of coffee grounds,
ephemerally sweet.
you say through a haze of late night drinks,
you say the world is yours.
you look like you’re trying to convince yourself.
you, a child in a grown-up’s body,
reaching for things you yet understand.
newsprint kohl on your hands,
not so different from schoolyard mud.
spectacles unbalanced on your button nose.
you say while biting your lips,
you say the world is yours.
you sound like you’re trying to find the words.
oh, darling you:
so eager to leap free,
so sure that you can make your way,
so very world-weary in your naiveté.
i tell my children:
i shall not bid you stay in the nest,
for i know you must spread your wings.
go forth, bitter adulthood awaits.
mayhap you find your kernel of sweetness in the acrid beans.
you are the fruits of my coffee seed.
3.
interlude: you ask and i answer
you ask me
why:
why, when i
write,
that it is
always you and i.
always just
two -
the two of us
speaking to
each other.
i ask you why
not:
why can't it
be
that there is
but you and i?
you mistake
yourself for a lover
when you are the
whole wide world:
the skies and
the oceans,
and the
animals too.
i ask:
what is life
but an interaction
between
myself
and
everything else?
4.
sly scheherazade with your dessert
i write, sly
oblique references on the side
served as flash-frozen dessert
sweet but not too sweet
a light drizzle of sauce
in case you find me heavy-handed
one must never say more than one should
never say it out loud
never point at it straight
and so i must lead you through the small road
i glance at you, sly
scheherazade with her veil
light words to mimic sunshine through the leaves
agile, flexible, dancing vowels
yes, but no, and only if you wish
i lead you through the long roads
meandering paths
saying it twice, saying it thrice
saying four times and leading you back
i say no more than i should
in writing, sly
shy little decorations on the page
such is poetry
tango-dancing back and forth
pressed flush against the edge of too much
too little, courting irrelevance
here your scheherazade comes
with your dessert, swaying to unheard music
have i been too overt?
let me backtrack: hand you a treat
sweet as sin
and just as saccharine
i bid you read this again
appreciate the feather touches of gracelessness
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