When You Joke
When You Joke
I believe your humour is becoming more and more obscure
The clever innuendo about juicers and a biological occurrence
hit somewhere in the fermenting grey matter
sank without a ripple or a plop-
not sexual allusions, I see fruit as fruit
but they crack up on the tortuous rug
mutton-stuffed jiggling bellies
into the feathery softness.
deeper I circle, it’s a pity about my mind,
arranged in ascending blocks, wobbling
who knows when they’d topple over-
nowadays your talk is filled with too many ‘never mind’s
Listen to the thumps behind the plywood wall
louder as night fell, so has the murky fumes
passing sporadically over the chiaroscuro ceiling
shh…the slants move, have you noticed?
mottled, mossy tiles shifting and tilting
cracks appearing, faces peering.
You pull away from my frantic hands-
(annoyingly subtle, unnervingly firm)
I ground my teeth and crushed a nail.
Blissfully unaware, entertaining
sipping sangria, mindlessly stroking my right cheek
(a mere habit, no longer an exciting prelude)
And cracking, more jokes, more jokes.
The throaty sound of your laughter,
is not what I enjoy anymore
It’s those teeth that I count,
Increasing in number, stretching all the way
down your throat, a ghost train,
growing shaper and whiter
The more you laugh, the more I see-
shadows in sharp relief
seeds trembling inside tomatoes
The knife on the side-board singing
a song of verdicts and psychosis.
blocks change and scintillate
in the sharp, metal light
part of an unstable rubix cube
you can’t figure out which colour fits where.
Lets talk about colours? You shrug away again.
Mirrors burn with yearning,
While their chiral selves amuse
briefly holding shattered lust
in their mercury souls.
But the jokes-
I tell you, I don’t get them any more.
Its as absurd as the swelling silence between us
crammed with screaming words.
I am intrigued by the knife song
clamorous, but soothing
entombed incubi deluging
Mouths without faces, open wide-
screaming, that’s all what comes out of that
screaming, that all what
drips from the cold steel edge.
that’s how these jokes should end.
Copyright © Jeena Chacko