Blink and You'll Miss It

In the middle of my aunt’s funeral I was hit by the power of religion. The negative power.

As my dear old aunt, who had been suffering for well over a year lay there for all to see; I wondered just how much of the spectacle was in memory of her and how much was so the neighbours wouldn’t talk.  I could go down the road of criticism towards my cousins for lack of time spent with my aunt, but as they could easily retaliate with the fact that I’d only travelled the 300 km to see her twice in one year, I’ll shut up on the subject and jab my finger at the institution that so many  believe in.

After what felt like an eternity of waiting and desperately trying not to stare at the body, the priest finally arrived. His first words of compassion were:

“I just received a phone call from someone needing their last rites, so I need to hurry this up”

I audibly gasped and hurriedly searched for equal looks of disgust on people’s faces. The only one I found was my father’s and it was more a roll-of-the-eyes look than anything else.

The priest proceeded to speed through the mass, not even allowing people to say their lines. I’m the first to admit that I can’t actually remember the last time where I sat through a mass of any sorts, but I do remember the numb butt feeling after a Sunday Mass. The whole thing, including the burial, was done in 25 minutes. It was almost a “blink and you miss it” moment. 

In these 25 minutes, I refused to give up and kept searching the faces for the slightest sign of outrage and again came up with nothing. Well, yet again apart from my dad rolling his eyes while pretending to know what to say.  It was during one of those desperate pursuits that I realized just how powerful religion was. It held such a strong grip on these people that it overrode any indignation they might have had. They were so enthralled in their beliefs they failed to see that a mere man was the one before them. And it was this man who was disrespecting their faith and in turn my aunt (and whoever was dying). This man’s actions disregarded my aunt’s many years of belief in this particular religion, his hastiness swept aside any consideration for the mourners – who had only had a day to begin to process the death, this is after all Portugal – and his abruptness belittled any meaning the ceremony could have had.

Surely the best thing to have done was to deliver the last rites to the poor person who was dying and just delay the funeral – it’s not like my aunt was going anywhere now is it?! Or maybe I’ve just grown too cynical towards the men and women of the cloth who carry themselves as righteous and superior yet are of flesh and bone like the rest of us… Either way, what happened shouldn’t have.

RIP Ana Conceição

The Dating Game Show

The host at the beginning of the show may be a mutual friend, or there may actually be none. The recording studio can range from a dark, musty bar to a lively Mexican restaurant and as for the contestants, well there's hardly ever any in-depth background check and they can range from a Brad Pitt lookalike to a Ted Bundy wannabe. The prize is high stakes: love or at the very least a hot fling.

The date, or "this week's show", starts off with the pleasantries and a few innocuous questions, and as the alcohol - a must in most episodes - flows maybe the conversation does too. During this flow, a genius may be discovered, a soul mate found or your worst nightmare exposed. Or not. The bed of the river of conversation may in fact run completely dry, no matter how much alcohol you pour into it. Thus, the dilemmas begin. Do you make a deft departure, excusing yourself with an emergency call from a friend or do you politely postpone your exit until the end of the meal/night? Do you babble on about the atrocities of your job, recount childhood memories, share your ex's flaws or just stifle the yawn that has been slowly building up? Or do you pretend to be something that you’re not and tell tall stories of drama and adventure? Decisions, decisions.

The end of the show may come quickly for some and far too sluggishly for others. Either way, unless an emergency call has been made by a life-saving friend, contestants are then left with the awkwardness of goodbye. Will it be a peck on the cheek, a hearty smack on the lips, a full on tongue twisting snog or a barely there hug? Does the moment require a deceitful promise of the continuation of contact or can the two be honest and delete each other from their phones? Or perhaps, the two contestants will walk away while Bryan Adams croons in the background “Everything I do” and the stars will twinkle brightly and for a good 24 hours the world will seem like it’s a better place.

But wait, what if your Brad Pitt lookalike is a dull as Jennifer Anniston yet he thinks you're not only better looking than Angelina Jolie but more interesting by far?! Obviously, promises have to be made to text or call tomorrow. And obviously, neither will be done.

Oh, wait a minute. It could be even worse. Your Brad Pitt lookalike could actually be gainfully employed, have his own place and car, have no offspring, be responsible, trustworthy, funny, interesting and completely not interested in you.

The possible outcomes of this show are almost infinite but the feelings it provokes are seemingly less than that. After all, we’re only talking about the spectrum ranging from jubilance to despair, multiply that by the fact that there are two people involved who may have completely different perspectives on the experience… Well, yes it seems that the potential induced feelings may be infinite too.

I'm married. Happily, I hasten to add. And I thank my lucky stars for that because I don't think I would want to be a contestant on this particular game show. I’m sure there are many audiences partaking in these shows that would disagree with me, and that would argue that there are many humorous moments to be shared. Indeed, that the prize outweighs the disappointment. I take my hat off to that audience because I personally couldn’t deal with the exposé it all entails.

I’m married. Happily married. And I thank my lucky stars for that.

Storm

In the eye of the storm, she is magestically magnificant

Fearlessly flying though gargantuan gusts and wrathful whirlwinds,

Smoothly soaring above hidden hazes and frosty fog,

With effortless ebony feathers fondled by the wind.

In the eye of the storm, she is fiercly ferocious

Silently swooping on vunerable victims and gregarious game,

Readily ripping their hideous hearts from their saddened souls,

Ethereally existing and precariously prevailing in a fabricated fantasy.

In the eye of the storm, she is perpetually passionate

Inattentively intoxicating the carnal collaboration she needs to survive,

The inexplicable infatuation presently passing her by,

As she is delightedly detached from tenacious ties.

In the eye of the storm, she is tenderly timorous

Secretly scared of the tormenting truth escaping her sorrowful spirit,

Heedlessly hungering for a breezeless blizzard and an impassive inundation,

Only with which she can serenly settle to her starless sky.

Rapist's Eyes

Pinned against the wall, she cries,

Avoiding the look of the rapist’s eyes,

She turns her face from his putrid breath,

Sensing the effects of the forbidden meth.

He pinches and squeezes until she’s bruised

She screams and shouts until her energy’s all used.

Forces himself inside in one angry thrust

As she loudly wails in agony and disgust.

Feeling the bitter bile rise in her throat

She recalls the symbols that her love wrote.

He moans and groans in anticipation

Until the moment has come for ejaculation.

He pulls out and let’s her slide down the wall,

Letting her crawl into a small little ball.

He laughs in jest at her sorry state

Compliments her and says it was great.

Then he hollers for rape number two

“Come on then, she’s a fucking good screw”

She closes her eyes and let’s her mind wonder

To a peaceful influence to which she falls under,

As her body is violated in every way

Her mind plays tricks and floats away

She barely feels the lunging of his cock

When she slips away in insulin shock.

Unpaid Whore

Stranded and alone

Leaning against the telephone pole

Cloud of smoke hides the hollow look

Lewd acts in which the john partook

Sleepless nights with cheap tricks

Nasty thrills to get your kicks

Powerless to hurt me anymore

Nothing but an unpaid whore.

Wise Oak Tree

One day you will face the strong winds

You will neither falter nor fall.

You will stand tall and proud.

You will battle and win.

You will strengthen and mature.

You will nurture and foster.

You will shield and protect

You will shade and shelter.

One day you will be.



Five Senses

I see you crumpled and ragged

Lying on the contemporary leather couch

The one you bought in better times.

I wish I could give you a padded room

For you to emancipate your fury.

I hear your shattered and estranged voice

Talking to me on your extravagant new cell

The one you required in happier times.

I wish I could bring back your musical muse

For you to lose yourself in the strings.

I feel your sorrowful torment

Going through your demanding days

Like the ones you had in another lifetime

I wish I could give you a serene pillow

On which to rest your languid head.

I smell your immense grief and revulsion

Selling the utopian beach house of your ideals

The one that was a rebirth of a punctuated life

I wish I could endow you with a home

In which to shelter away from this tornado.

 

I taste your salty clandestine tears

Being shed from your exposed being

The one that has fostered abuse and dismay

I wish I could be there to incinerate the despair

For you to continue the way you were.