WHITE CHRISTMAS

 

WHITE CHRISTMAS

How I wish I was old enough (not as Poe though) and bucks flowing through my pocket on a vacation with my hot dame out slowly melting fats on the white sands of some paradise else-where. What a silly dream though? For a moment I stop to wonder why human daydreams and fantasies are spooky than their nightmares. If I had a David Hurley I wouldn’t want anyone on it on such a day but few packets, some sausages, ham and some rum too for the love of the wild country road and its charming roaring winds. I wouldn’t mind to listen to the voice messages the day after in my cold mountain log cabin as sparrows and squeals of the day before fill the pregnant ether.

Usually I‘m not a wet blanket so if I woke up at ten with drops of ethane and wormwood still suspended in my uppercase inhaling what the a stranger in my bed is exhaling,clearly,the carols would remind me which day it was before finally being blinded by red.

Two almost three decades that have melted into sweet original time, ecstasy could’ve held my stubborn lids apart all night not that I was to be the fourth wise man but just that I couldn’t imagine of the thief in the night who would rip through the mud walls and make away with all the mandazis for escort. However still, I couldn’t see dawn coming for me to just devour some dough, chapatti was for supper and rice for lunch after church festivities.With the early morning dew I couldn’t wait to run after that big stubborn sharp clawed cock that troubled the village roosters and come back with it tucked tight under my strong toddler arms like a veteran back from Vietnam or as if proving I was fit for the London’s or Berlin’s or some military school though it was no closer in our milieu. I still remember well my showers were unusually early before I officially settled for what had been modified from the food chain.

Long live the white-mans’ fantasy day, after all the tedious singing and “herding sheep” in my rugged shorts on top of my pants trying to recreate this day and events as they were before the old bench of men and women all my mind was fixated on was the carbonated poison and the sweet death wrapped in a piece of candy.Some years were even more memorable when the worms had a special treat and couldn’t hide their joy devouring their cousins only that I forgot to swallow some chopsticks for them on such occasions of need.

It’s these memories that kill me softly alive, knowing that my joys about religious fairies have been drowning me ever since. Oh yes I’m dead...walking dead, am dying from thoughts. Ideas society has fertilized with well decomposed manure in my head. Sitting here dead broke feeling “lonely and neglected” for having nothing to celebrate. However if I could be someone else maybe I would be in the viaduct with my glue and sack freezing to the marrow from winters rage but neither am I him or her or ‘you’celebrating the birth of the light of the world naked somewhere with someone drowned in bottles  probably too happy that our past present and future have been amazingly taken care of. Now I guess you about to dig into that Simnel cake and half fill your thin champagne glasses with tongue twisting names from chateaus and plateaus overseas for you are on the road to the golden city because of this special day.

 Last year I wrote a poem Christmas and this year I’m here trying hard to shit out a pyrotechnic piece of thought instead of celebrating. Such a shitty writers piece huh?

Am bombarded, really, more than Richard Eberhart’s The Fury of Aerial Bombardment.

“Do they even know it’s Christmas?“

I ask myself as I listen to this English son of a biscuit on my roach filled dusty stereo singing a song named Christmas.

”What is Christmas anyway?”

I don’t seem to comprehend just like many else so I roll up one and strike the match to rape the somberness in my cranny nook to unclog my head and make the tones of the cool slow soothing music sink where the love hasn’t ... this jam Last Christmas...

It’s around 8:40 I guess when my lids finally accept to open willingly. My Chinese toy lies by side as it’s my only baby for now till death does us part. My iris seems too lazy to read the time and the new day light pours into the room with such immensity that irks the pupil slowly awakening. Everything starts to drag itself into motion at its own pace. I thrust my feet onto the cheap imported carpet to figure out a thing or two but my head turns stone. You can smell the dullness of the morning air and hear with some accurate frequency. A bachelor needs nothing more than just a little dark crammed up cranny with any possible thing technology could offer so that he may pick the remote with ease when he wakes up; a single pan for all his frying needs; if he’ lucky then a pad would be there to keep him happy and company as he walks with Johnny into the woods or a ghost town. DW has always been my favorite channel of choice for some international news and superb documentaries. Sometimes you turn on the TV and an hour in the crapper room seems better; public relations, politricks, politreachery... let’s just say hocus pocus all day. I find my feet and pull my dreary drunken figure to the bathroom.

Minutes later I’m still wondering of the next move but not even a flash or spark comes across my mind. Unable to completely hatch a plan I accept I’m a jerk and just do what jerks do: sloth inside all day, however, mostly this is how I find that spark from the blues. With nothing important to celebrate I have to find something important to do and that has to be ink and paper and usually the words would trickle with the smell of ink as it thickens in the air. Now that’s love and if not I will pick up an old book and the smell of the old ages would fill my lungs a I get lost in the forest of words between its pages; 15th – 20th century poetry, a book about becoming a billionaire or try to understand a line in Stephen kings The Nature Of Space And Time. However it’s not that I want to understand why I’m here right now but because I love struggling to understand the incomprehensible and for whatever reasons if I ever act wild once or always please  try to understand me the way I struggle to understand difficult things.

A buzz is accompanied by a pop up message from a new number that’s possibly an old number since I can’t retrieve anything from cloud. When you’re screwed up you forget a lot of detail the only thing you never forget is your shitty name. Simply retrieving a password to an account can really be cumbersome and cost your forgetfulness. I remember I were to write stories under the Tales of a Black Man and hastily find pen and paper which my minds flows and quickly ravages it however do I know what’s Christmas now? Do the dead celebrate Christmas? What if my home was Aleppo?  What really is this day?

Maybe it’s a hyponym that has been watered down and replaced by some cheap expensive hullabaloo?“Yes” Christmas is a hyponym that I need not tell you of but thanks to the white man the wimp villain will always sin again and next Christmas I’ll have something to write about again for I don’t own a David Hurley to ride down the country road with a red bandanna, half leather suit, dark shades and a cloud of smoke disappearing behind my back from my nostrils and mouth sides feeling good feeling bad like Rambo or Schwarzenegger. For now I have nothing to celebrate for love is not being celebrated and there is nothing for me and few others out thereto celebrate.

“But Jesus you never told me your birthday is way too expensive than mine.”Promises... Promises are there to be broken, men say. I don’t want to set foot outside, Christmas nowadays is usually cold, colder , rainy, dull, boring and hell of a day and only food and book try to make it live...and the friends who may come over too. However this day has memories, aging like fine wine or hell of a memory probably once or twice. I’m talking things like broke, heartbroken and lonely. Going back to memories I will definitely live to remember this one. On the eve of this holy saint’s day as I swiftly maneuvered the alleys, a weird noise caught my attention and a minute or two into the drama I realized it’s all but some bastard drunks who seemed to have had one too many and perforated their pockets by now. The bartender some ugly fat old woman is on their necks, the fire she’s spitting affirms that this sudden play is bad for business. Suddenly blows fly around and each really want the others jaws to change their dental formula perhaps. For now I guess, that’s a Christmas memory for somebody, however, my folders are safely tucked somewhere for some other day. I have seen it all and now I find joy in this day as I can sit somewhere by myself and embed this monologue in technology.

In the wee the three wise men had followed a star to a muse in a manger, Mary’s boy child, Jesus Christ, a king was born today. I wish I had mojo and take her for some grilled chicken for that’s what Christmas maybe to her for we live to satisfy the curse of the opposite genders.

Anyway I might try drink not to celebrate your annual rebirth in this gruesome world like the others or to find my spark but because I want to see this keyboard clearer by every letter and mark but may you forgive me if I don’t turn up for you. Forgive all others too who are about themselves and not love, for you are born and our sin washed away.Forgive us lord for losing ourselves. I hope these stars in my eyes on these Christmas nights will one day lead me to your manger.

Just know I can’t wait for Next Christmas, however, I more wish that all the Christmas days be combined into such one long length of infinite time. I hope you too has memories of this magical day. Long live Christmas and as some artist sang... “And men will live forever more because of Christmas day” .Can I be Santa?

 

NB: WRITERS RECOMMENDED READ

MEMORIES OF PARADISE JENNY BRIDGE

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