Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

Crying In The Rain

Posted: September 29, 2015 in Uncategorized

It’s raining outside.Again. Oh, how I love the rain! So i put on my shorts, sneakers and tattered T-shirt. Time to walk in the rain. I love walking in the rain: it cleanses me, it cools me down. Above all, it gives me time to think.

I step outside and picked a direction at random. I don’t mind getting lost. I long to get lost. The raindrops sizzle on my skin. I wish it rained in my life. Deep inside I’m drowning in the arid desert of regret. I cry dusty tears as walk, no rain in my soul….even my lacrimal glands are arid. My mind starts wondering the dark, dusty warrens of my heart and soul. Each thought raises grey ashes from the floors of my pockmarked heart. Did it ever rain here? Oh man, I can’t even remember. How did it all get to this? Never mind that now, I’m already here. Where is “here” again…..?…..

…..I don’t know. I wish I did. In the meantime, a dusty tear falls onto my rusty cheek. The rain wipes it away. I scream and bawl. The thunder drowns it all. Convenient it is, nobody will notice. They never can see through me. “I do my crying in the rain.” Just another Country Blues. I live the Blues. I know nothing else.

The rain stops and I turn back, retracing my steps. I jog a little to get rid of the weight i feel on my shoulders. Must I visit a shrink? I decide I don’t want to. I don’t have time for some fancy wordplay with some snobby, condescending dude on a couch. Soon it will be winter. Winter holds many truths: no bright (and beautiful) blooms to remind me of the ugliness inside. Just a vast white tarp of snow covering every surface. How I long for an eternal winter! Winter preaches of mortality and eternity at the same time.(sorry, i just can’t explain how)
Am I losing my grip? I don’t know, but I don’t think so. I’m just being introspective and creative. Is this story Fact or Fiction? Well, you better use your own discretion. “Fiction is the truth inside a lie,” that’s what he said. And he is Stephen King. I write in blood and tears, that’s all I know. Whose blood? Whose tears? It’s up to you to decide.

I dry myself, feeling cleansed. “Let the rain come down and wash away my tears,”I whistle the tune, suddenly reinvigorated.( though there is never a “new day”… the pain never stops)The last thought on my mind wrenches my heart as I lay on my bed: “Do the gods have a shoulder to cry on?” I wonder as another dry tear falls onto my wet cheek. Some questions are better left unanswered and some alleys unexplored. Sleep never comes on days like this…..but i close my eyes nonetheless….and all the skeletons and old demons come out to play. They always find me…..oh God, they always do.

@David Phiri 29/09/2015


Lover’s Deathbed

Posted: September 4, 2015 in Uncategorized

My heart is weak, hear me out my darling
The skies are blue and the birds are calling
My distance has been run please just leave me be
On your journey home, please name a mountain after me

The cold clutch of death, how it holds me strong
My grief, sorrows and wounds, how they deeply throng
Days are now dark, my light is fading
Please hold me close on warm padded bedding

Oh, let my roses fade, for I once bloomed
My season is over, even angels fall
Nothing is forever, even this love so good
Sing me a threnody while my petals fall

Grieve for me my love, yet not eternally
The wheel turns and gods claim their own
Who knows if I’ll rest infernally?
But your arms will always be my home

The Lion Sleep’s Tonight

Posted: August 22, 2015 in Uncategorized

philipchicco's Blog

“Are you a man of faith Mr Cephas?” the priest asked him with an honest face. Cephas looked at him with a painful expression. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone today, let alone a priest.graveyard

“Normally I’d have replied “Yes” without a pause. Those were the old days when life was simpler. But now…” he paused and looked around at the deserted graveyard. A homeless man was preparing his place in the bushes to crash out for the night, a few ravens were drinking by the pond and the red sun was now tangent to the horizon—it was a depressing scene from a dystopian set. He continued talking as he stared at the birds by the pond, wondering what it was like to be free like them (are they birds of faith? He wondered)

“Now I don’t know anymore. I don’t even know if ever I was such…

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Fading Youth

Posted: July 28, 2015 in Uncategorized

There is a certain way to life that drains you of all the energy. The rich and sparkling luster of youth dims and fades, leaving behind dark voids and empty crevices that reek of rot, decay and festering mold which eat you from within. And so you hold on to the shadow of the obdurate past, you let it anchor you down so that when tempest tossed you cling to the familiar comfort of your own delusions. With the unyielding clock mockingly ticking and prancing on into the future, you get swept along in a trance of reminiscence, going through life with a nasty hangover of youth.

Even though you try to aim for the stars, you crush and burn like Icarus—wreck into the vast sea of depression and despair without any lighthouse to cast a beam of hope on your leathery aging face. You wash up on the bank and shoal of middle age with nothing but a sore head laden with a kaleidoscope of childhood innocence and chaste joy. Right there at the edge of the unknown, with the vast sand creeping from you calloused hands—hands that toiled hard with wax and feathers to make the wings that eventually let you down—you realize , for a change , the futility of life.

For once you know (and it hits you hard) about how much loneliness there is around—loneliness that metastases like a malignant cancer deep in the marrow of your heart. With no one to help you heal and repair the broken wings, you become just one old fallen angel—an angel now prone to the helplessness of a mortal soul, someone who can be swept adrift by the vast ocean of pain like canoe in the eye of a deadly hurricane. Salty tears sweep down you cheeks and you curl on the bed of sand. Like Narcissus, you pine away into oblivion but with no flower to mark your final demise. Where are the gods when you need them? Is anybody out there?
© David Phiri

Pathetic it is, this a human condition. For we find meaning and depth in the smallest of all things. And so we party, dance out in the snow at midnight and have our full fill of merry and cheer; we dine and groove ’till the wee hours(with gay laughter as our cheerful and faithful chaperone). But where does the breaking of dawn find us?

It finds us and takes us all back….Back to our sorry frame where the world is tumbling; back to our anxieties, depression and nightmares….; back to the foundation, the roots, where our lives are being threatened by dry rot and malignant pests; to the remnants of our stormed hearts…..; back to our empty pockets and accrued bills– to the state of solitude and unhappy life..; back to reality-back to us …back ,back ,back…

…And we continue wallowing about, lost like a penguin in the desert. And yet our hope we don’t give up. For we wait patiently for the next glass, the next meal and the next winter solstice. We live on, ignoring the important things around us–ignoring the lunar cycles and pale Hecate’s feasts–overlooking the fact that our hairline is receding with each passing cycle. That’s alright, for we all want to stay “forever young”. But again reality sets in with the breaking dawn because the next snowfall finds us….

……with a beard and a bald spot on our heard. It finds us with fresh new worries to such an extent that dancing out, skipping around, merrying and cheering will no longer be an option. But we still hold on to the delicate memories of previous winters. We hold on to them like a fragile crystalline dandelion and look at those photos with such a sparkle in the eye. We look back through time; back to the bloom and peak of youth where time was just another losing fool incapable of catching up on us…

…but it does finally catch up. And when it does, it makes us all pay the piper. We regret the time we wasted, the love we lost and the words we never said. We regret ever letting go of everything, our loved ones and our youthful vigour. For at that time you’ll be trapped. Trapped in such a way that you’ll need a stick to help you dance–forever revolving around it for the rest of your painful years, tied upon it by a leash like a watchdog…trapped in the way that every move you make is no longer a reflex but has to be reported and processed slowly by our stormed operating system which might just crash and leave behind only useless hardware…trapped such that your map and radar will only be confined to the bed, the kitchen and the toilet…trapped, trapped and trapped again in that head of yours in such a way that every thought will give up on you and sublime long before it makes sense;….No love, no mercy nor sentiments; just a gray world revolving around a white stick and dark spectacles–an eternal solar eclipse….

But for now I am a typical boy, a typical youth so naïve that I overlook it all. Why bother? Summer is finally here and girls are in their hot bikinis. Why worry about tomorrow? Why worry about school? Time will always have its way either way: it will always catch up on us no matter what we do. So turn up your swag everyone and grab a beer, soda, cherry or even a glass of water for crying out loud ‘coz the “heat” is on….HAPPY SUMMERTIME FIGHT EVERYONE!!!

©david phiri All Rights Reserved


Posted: June 14, 2015 in Uncategorized

Eternity spread before me as I stood there upon the wavy shores. Wind and waves were crushing upon the jagged reef, breaking up all the cries of despair they brought from way across the shore—unloading their despairing load. At the far horizon, a blood-red sky and orange sun stood as faithful witnesses over the vast sea—a sea made bitter by the desolate tears of the sons of man. I stood there, a solitary figure away from home, with darkness creeping up behind an unsuspecting sun and I was struck by an epiphany. I understood that…..

………Sometimes dawn comes at twilight: That moment of vivid lucidity where our thoughts haunt us while we are staring at the dying orange-red ball by the western horizon. Loneliness slowly creeps up on us and jump-starts the mechanisms of the draw-bridge linking the conscious part of our mind to its deranged long-lost brother; the unconscious. Keeping solitary company suddenly feels wiser and deep, yet we always crave for that drunken brawl of the corner bar.

And so, far from the maddening crowd, I burrowed deep into my psyche, linking all aspects of my troubled day, trying hard to untangle that raveled yarn of confusion and hurt. That is the moment I started thinking of the things I lost, things I silently weep for in the caverns of my rundown brain.

It’s not the razzle-dazzle things that came to my mind but the smallest of things: a shared joke, the silent moments between one conversation and the next, a walk in the night and even a simple smile and a hug. These moments, though insignificant to a passing eye as they may be, remain engraved upon my hollow heart forever and give me a sense of belonging.

It’s a pity how the young fail to live in the fluid presence, always seeking a better place and a better day. It’s the perils of ambition; we sacrifice the important things so that we might just have our moment in the stars—bright lights and black-tinted Mercedes.

We never know the good years when we are living through them; we never know a good thing when we have it. We let time pass and let memory be the ultimate judge and jury to the good times we once had, the good times we never acknowledged because we were too busy hunting fortune—and thus we live a nostalgic retrospective life. We (the youth) all live a delirious dream, only to wake up with grey hairs and malfunctioning sphincters.

But seriously, who can fully grasp the pleasures of a subdued life in a sleepy little town? Alas the joy! So unfathomable! From the lucid early morning fresh air and the accompanying crow of a well-fed cock, to the splendid golden sunset over the jagged hills. Life can be slow, but it is the deep tranquility that works up on our dull senses—the vast wisdom from the silent mountains, the warm flow of silting up river. Striving for high ideas has left us blind to all the beauty there is around us. All I am asking is for us to slow down and live. Dance your demons away under a putrefying African moon, take time to watch a baby smile, give you grandparents a kiss, lose yourself in the shallow dimples on your lover’s cheek or ruffle the dreadlocks of a random Rastafarian. This is how life should be…..this should be our legacy.

© David Phiri 2015

He says, She says

Posted: June 14, 2015 in Uncategorized

The world’s a cruel place—it’s axiomatic. You don’t have to read the paper or watch the news to know it. All you have to do is take a minute and listen. Listen carefully and you can hear them–the silent screams of women and children muffled by the constant din of rush-hour traffic; the empty wails of orphans that reverberate as monotonous undertones through the amplified rhythm of the loud techno-music. And yet THEY continue to dance. They dance away into oblivion, blinding themselves with cigarette smoke and dulling their senses with the hard liquor and hypnotic narcotics. They drown the dance floor with bloody sweat, twisting their bodies in a spasmodic fandango while chained and weighed down by the shadow of the pit “It’s the dance of life, babe.” That’s what SHE said when I asked. Little do they know that they’re dancing to a threnody on their own shallow graves, with death as their DJ.

The world turns a notch and you dare watch the news. Beheadings, wars, terrorism and pestilence are all squeezed in between ads of new gadgets and beauty soaps. It’s a honkytonk of fools where the most ruthless and the sexiest nudist are celebrated and worshipped. I asked her about honour, love and virtue but SHE only stared and wept. “It’s the last days, dearest,” is all SHE could manage to say.

SHE is a prostitute who works the night. SHE lives in a trailer and shops downtown. SHE’s been with more men and they always leave her with a blackeye which she covers up behind that makeup. Yet every Sunday she sits in the front row and gets ruptured in spirit. She’s in the choir and her sweet voice rises above all as she sings “Silent Night” every Christmas morning while holding a white flickering candle. I can see her life flickering also within that flame—just another sweet cherub, ravaged by this world’s injustices. I asked the priest about her life because I couldn’t grasp it. “HE deals in mysterious ways and HIS ways are unknown to us,” is all he said.

He says, she says—we live in the world of what THEY say. Nobody cares to listen to what I say and so I write letters to the gods every night; letters from down here in the drains where nobody cares a bit and no benevolence is found. I’m just young and trying to figure it out. Do YOU feel the same? What do YOU have to say?

© David Phiri