Hello, ghostly angel of the night,
Here, the other ghost of recent apparitions
That make the last minutes of a life a worthy passage
Dancing at DubC we crossed each other’s eyes smiling
As two palms swinging a sweet storm together, close but separated,
As Reggae hummed our senses in a slow but sensuous delight
And then again, a second apparition at Jerk 2too,
A brief and blue accidental face-to face that flashed again the Paradise lost
But le’s rejoice! It seems that we, ghosts, can bang sometimes the universe
And trip as astronauts beneath the moon dust tunic of our dreams
To follow the tails of our kites
I wonder if it is then, when some wise women say, that certain dreams come true;
Or else they sing ancient stories about destiny,
like the one that befell Troy in a war fought for Helena in a dice game between the gods,
unbeknownst to men
(But then… we are the ghosts, somehow immortals, and able to create or recreate our own myths if we care to do so)
I wish I had a pigeon from your hearth
To tie this message to his paws
As an arrow that flights directly to your dovecote,
Your intimate centre, as I paint for you a delicate cobweb,
A little window in the forest, to wait for you to appear again
and converse the music of our ghostly beats and silences.
- Juan Rulfo
Nothing can hide indefinitely;
Their ways are unveiled eventually;
Mostly when the adrenaline rises,
the fakeness expands in the midst of a crisis;
When the masks fall to the floor
it will leave them embarrassed,
as if, a conscience is a cold sore;
Their eyelids batters, lips pursed
scoping the room for a victim to curse;
Tis the heated moment for shoulders to rise?
Or maybe a pinch of guilt
thrown in with crocodile cries?
The narcissist is never wrong,
Perfection is the chorus of their song,
So never you wait for a narcissist
for an apology is something
you’ll never receive.
- Angela Yap Chung.