Illustrator __ Tian Luan
a black cat
___tiptoed across piano keys
____________________________________onto the chess board
knocking over a pawn
cautiously colour blind
at every traffic light
walking the line down the middle of the road
_________________________________silhouetted against a full moon
left in a hurry
the milk carton lies on its side
pristine black tiles
it sits on me
as black on white
no sin ?
the question respires
while I slowly expire.
my feet hang in the air
in other time
looses my thoughts!
and eats them.
my thoughts are endless fear
the white cries on the black
I might find you never, my mere self
but my thoughts fear
the subjunctive as flesh fire
and while I respire
my thoughts flee
in a stranger’s heart
as does dark flee from light.
I think my thought
and they all sink
to never seen grounds of hearing
the sight fearing still myself.
and in the mean time
I put bookshelf
drown my immersed self
in liquid air
until I forget your hair on my shoulders.
in bitterness of you
what is wrong or right
what might have been my side
of black on white
the idea might be without ending
that I’ve been spending
time will help with this
there is an end
to this unseen cleft
of flesh on wound
and no unforeseen possibility of them
will minimise your black on white being
my unforeseen seeing
of wrong on white?
of right on might have been possibilities
is drowned in grey.
and finally myself was found
but in liquid air.
Black White Hot Salty
Culinary base notes – the black and white of taste,
Underpinning flavours resonating, humming in the background
A generous chef’s pinch sprinkled while cooking;
The flourish of the waiter as he grinds the dark spheres in to dots on your plate
The contrast between saline and heat and the simultaneous harmony like piano keys
Salarium to salary; ponder the white grains as a valuable commodity
Pepe, peper, pfeffer, a black gold traded across the sea
These seasonings are now commonplace
In every kitchen, every supermarket, every corner shop
Yet they remain treasures in what they lend to the food we consume
Black heat, salty white, the essential yin and yang of cuisine.
Midnight breaths his frosty breath
As he leans close to the glass,
Long fingers crackling over the pane,
Black eyes seeking out the warmth
Offered to us by the white hot fire
We’re huddled round.
All night we have listened to the deep crunch of snow
As he edged nearer and nearer.
We felt his ice cold hands reach towards us,
Brushing past twisted branches of the tallest trees
Leaving icicles and curled leaves,
And now he drapes his cloak around our chimneys
Shrouding them from sight.
He stays at our windows ‘til Dawn arrives,
Blinding him with her rosy smile.
Slowly she works at melting the frost sheen he has left behind –
The only sign that Midnight was here at all.
Sunday 7th October 2012
An entity in itself; the race
A finishing line of pure innocence
A melody that fights through space
Challenging the music, pure brilliance
Born today they say those girls
Have a world of patterns weaved in
They’ll grow thick, black crazy curls
On their delicate, intricate skin
From black to white their plight
Starts and finishes with two mixes pieces
The history and tradition of two in sight
A collaboration of colour, my nieces,
A world of negative images may be set before you
But bring colour stand for any word that is true, to you, two.