Lucius Bod | Rogue Diary

Ginger and Spice

On my table lies the first draft of a story. You embrace me with the delicious aroma of your cooking and yell at me from the infamous kitchen of sarcasm, demanding of my kisses to taste like the stars, not cookie dough. Your words sound better than the morose drivel engraved on the page, and when I open my mouth, I feel moons and galaxies breezing into my mind. 

My gypsy had lain unconscious in the mirror for years until you came along. I used to feel as if my life’s mission was to watch an hourglass filled with dread and poison whilst sitting on a cinnamon-coloured chair, wearing clothes sheared to slices by my own poor judgement. When I finish my story you will know how everything changed in me the day you offered me a rabbit as a gift. 

The taste of pepper on my lips will always be part of my makeup, but I will follow you into a lifelong trance with your sweet-smelling skin on mine. I promise we will be together in New York soon, lover. 

© Text: Orlando Barahona
© Image: Philippe Leroyer/Flickr

 This work by Orlando Barahona is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. 

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Don't be afraid

Vivid dreams in colour show me glimpses of what I am. Some include sex, but I have begun to dream in definite colours, not just grays or black & white. Others are felt on my body with raw and pulsating pain, yet I cannot awake from them. Will I ever awake from them?

Where am I? A shock of magenta fades into fuchsia and ends abruptly on an opaque violet wall; I’m being led through a house I remember from my childhood by the hand of Carlotta, my younger sister. There are no sounds I can discern from her mouth as she speaks. One window deceives my mind into believing I see dark blue water and it shows me when I was seven years old, Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea. I am drowning into black. Another window…No! NO!! A red sportscar is coming our way!

My eyes open and I am chasing myself…being chased by someone… I am in a tavern drenched in orange and gold. Why can’t anyone hear me? My own panting and fear, the swelling of my arm muscles punching desperately an oak wood door mimic the distant sound of galloping.

In taberna quando sumus,non curamus quid sit humus,

sed ad ludum properamus,

cui semper insudamus.

quid agatur in taberna

ubi nummus est pincerna,

hoc est opus ut quaeratur;si quid loquar, audiatur.

Now, I see a garden but there is an acute blast into my ears coming from a silver trumpet and I suddenly see my arm with a needle in it. Sweating and enjoying the water pouring from my body brings me back to reality and it lingers, anchored by my own scents.

Should I be afraid? Will madness introduce me to my own soul? I shall not sleep again; I must continue my search for Paradise. Thank you for coming to see me again, dear Carlotta.

© Text: Orlando Barahona
© Image: Milos Milocevic/Flickr

 This work by Orlando Barahona is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. 

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https://www.facebook.com/luciusbod