Between the Lines

[Of all Russian reversals, the one that rings truest is: You do not consume alcohol; alcohol consumes you.]

The door fell open.
He stepped in.
He stumbled.
With four others.
Alone.
With an air of apprehension.

Silence greeted him.
Dancing lights hit him.
Darkness engulfed him.
And music, deafeningly loud.

He looked around for her.
He surveyed the scene.
He couldn’t find her anywhere.
The same sight everywhere.

He called out her name.
Greetings were made.
She still did not come.
The party had started.

He felt hungry.
He felt angry.
Since he hadn’t eaten since noon.
Since he saw glasses being emptied.

He went into the bedroom.
He walked into a corner.
Where she lay asleep.
Away from it all.

She slept there with her son.
They drew nearer.
They were jolted awake.
They jostled towards him.

The young boy stood up.
They now encircled him.
He knew what would happen.
He didn’t want it to happen.

“Where’s the food?”
“The drinks are good!”
The man demanded.
In an agitative voice.

“I haven’t made any for you.”
“I didn’t come for this.”
“And why may I know is that?”
“I just came to wish him.”

“I’m fed up your habit.”
“At least try it once!”
“Don’t compel me to beat you.”
“Please don’t force me to.”

She stood firm tonight.
He stood resolute.
“Well, you asked for it.”
“You think we’d let you go?”

The man removed his belt.
He tried to run away.
The young boy fled the room.
They didn’t allow him to escape.

He raised it o’er his head.
They caught hold of his hands.
And brought it down in a flash.
He tried to wriggle free.

The scream was curdling.
Someone was pouring it in.
He went to go again.
The bile-like bitterness.

Blood was spat out.
He spat it all out.
The chain of belting recurred.
Some more, in, was poured.

She held her screeching back.
Maniacal laughter.
Unbearable pain.
Too much alcohol in their blood system.
Too little blood in his alcohol system.
He didn’t let it down his throat.

The gun-shot was sudden.
He felt the grip slacken.
The body doubled over.
He dashed away to freedom.

The little boy held the gun.
He ran all the way home.
Cleaned it of finger-prints.
Clean of any pints.

He fell on his mother’s feet,
And saw the scars still on her shins;
Her bittersweet tears fell on him
And cleansed him of his sins.

Rise! Above Them All!

[I have always wondered how nirvana is attained, and how many people have attained it without our knowing it. Why do those who have attained that state not come down from their plane of existence and enlighten others?
...My first genuine attempt at taking my poetry to the next level.]

Rise above guns and missiles and war-
Countries against, and the countries for.

Rise above the ones headlining non-news-
And above the ones bickering on non-issues.

Rise, my friends, above votebank politics-
They can form a full blood-bank, oh these bloody ticks!

Rise above these petty things and small-
You need to rise above them all.

Rise above the culture of casual dating-
The flirting, upskirting, and then the hating.

Rise above cigarettes, drugs and drinking-
You're making a hole in your own boat and sinking!

Rise above relations with ulterior motives-
Who suck the flower dry, so long as it gives.

Rise above these petty things and small-
You need to rise above them all.

Rise above jealousy, greed and gluttony-
Rise above slaughter for meat and muttony.

Rise above your working for only paychecks-
It feels like you're having passionless sex!

Unshackle yourself from mediocrity,
Rise! and tackle problems right at the nitty-gritty.

Rise above these petty things and small-
You need to rise above them all.

Rise yourself, and others raise,
Above them all, for one of these days,
So high above, you will have risen,
You'll laugh at the ones still in this prison.

The Black Cat

[Inspired (now that's a bad word to use here:) by the attacks Down Under, and the movie American History X. If you like this poem, make sure you give the film a watch. It'll set your heart racing.]

"Black cats are unlucky,"
His grandmother said
To Derek, who sat listening
On his grandmother's bed;
"Nothing good comes about them." "But
That's just superstition," he told
Her. He was quite smart
For a nine year old.

"Black cats are unlucky,"
His teacher warned,
"They're a menace to society."
'Lil Derek scorned
Her warning, and to himself thought:
'That is a misconception.'
He wasn't ready to believe all her
Words without question.

"Black cats are unlucky,"
His friends advised,
"They're bound to bring harm."
And Derek surmised
They were saying this because
They were trained to say this,
By their biased parents
Blinded by prejudice.

On his way back from school,
Derek saw a black cat-
Alone- with such innocence
In his eyes that
They could have been friends
On any other day;
But what happened next
Wouldn't make it that way:

Around the cat, a dozen
Odd people gathered,
Showered him with blows- with
Sticks and kicks smothered;
The cat got beaten even
After he died
For the crowd stayed on
Till all were satisfied.

Derek wanted to run,
But on a whim,
He looked at his hands
And knew they wouldn't hurt him.
He also knew what they'd been
Saying was right:
"The black cat was unlucky." He'd got
Killed for not being white.