Trapped

Monday, December 15, 2008

TRAPPED

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2008 by Philip Cairns

In the dark of the night,

The ghost said, “I am trapped.

Forlorn and confused.

Without hope or love.

Screaming, endlessly.

Not knowing who these people are that I see.

Help me. Help my soul.

I don’t feel dead.

But not alive, either.

No hope of redemption.

No sex. No life.”

I can feel the ghosts all around me,

Like watching movies of my past life.

Having sex with the well-hung dwarf.

It was slurpy and awesome.

But I don’t even know his name.

The gorgeous Asian man

Walked the halls in a white towel.

Thick hair sticking up,

Like a frightened cat.

He paid no attention to me.

I hate it when I can’t have what I want.

The ghost said, “Find my roots.

Give me some clothes to wear.

Is this purple ectoplasm fashionable?

I wouldn’t spend that kind of money

On a Fendi bag.

Did I do something wrong?

I’m so tired.

I’m feeling the effects of the enormous full moon.

No trust. No nothing.

I don’t even have Casper to talk to.”

The lilacs burst into bloom in the white winter.

Their bouquet was fragrant and pungent.

The dwarf is like a phantom in my life.

Fabulous sex, once a year, or so.

He said he shaved off his hair

Because it was too grey.

“What’s wrong with grey hair?,” I asked.

The ghost shrieked, “I’ve been trapped here

For endless time.

I love children.

I don’t want to scare them.

Have they been street-proofed against

Talking to me?

I’m frightened and lonely.

Everyone screams when they see me.

What am I, some kind of a freak or something?”

Hello, my name is Virgil and I am an alcoholic.

I can’t get the line to answer.

The ghost said, “I’ve been walking these halls for centuries.

Where is God when I need him?

What day is this?

What century?

Why can’t I sleep?

I want a hug.

I need a dwarf to put some passion in my bed.”

The palette is gray,

Like some colour-blind painter.

He should stick to graphite drawing, then.

Penetrating a vagina is not one of my goals in life.

However, it might be nice to come back

As a lipstick lesbian.

I could wear fabulous evening gowns

With sequins and blue chiffon.

Do the red carpet bit

And not have to worry about getting pregnant.

I don’t aspire to performing the missionary position.

The ghost shouted, “ Listen to me.

Hear my pleas.

Doesn’t anyone understand me?

I speak but no one seems to listen.

I’m frightened of the dark

But I can’t turn on the lights.

What did I do to deserve this fate?

Can anyone change $5 so I can do my laundry?

Fuck you all.

Leave me alone.

I just want to sleep

And see an angel or two.

Dracula is not my cup of tea.

This perpetual bleakness is haunting me.

I don’t know what I’m saying, anymore.”

The waves lapped against the sand.

It was hot and sticky.

The salt water soothed my burning feet.

I love the sounds of the ocean.

The seagull said, “I’m happy and free.

This is the greatest life.

I scream for joy.

I’ve got it made.”

He wasn’t even aware of the presence of ghosts.

The painter stood in the sand

With the perfect colour on his brush.

He had money and fame and talent.

The artist was at peace with his life.

Slapping gorgeous colours onto the canvas.

Life was very good, he thought,

Planted in the wet sand, barefoot,

Painting a blissful scene.

He was contented and secure in his talent.

He acknowledged everything.

The ghosts of the past had been laid to rest.

The ghost squeaked, softly, “What about me?

Am I merely dead?”

Life was extremely good for the Beatnik painter.

Enough money and paint.

Yes.

A talent to rival Monet’s.