a volcano cannot
Elle Vampa
duplicate the passion
with which
my rage erupts
unleashed by anguish
burning up the
prison within
released from captivity
not even love
can bound the
extent of
the pain felt
yet the burning
of the flames
is quenched
through sorrow’s tears
The flashing lights are so annoying I have no choice but to close my eyes instead of roll them like I normally would.
Why on Earth they insist on giving us this 10-minute-introductory-and-utterly-pointless-light-show is beyond me, and I brace myself as the loud music climbs to a climax.
I mean, really, who are they fooling here? We all know this audio madness is building up to a jump scare.
Actually, forget that. Turns out my sister is not in on this logic.
(Note to self: must remember to ask my mom for that special cream to use on this bruise-left-in-terror-squeeze later. What a pinch!)
We are in a smash room, doing my birthday event a week late. By nobody’s fault, my sister had to last minute cancel, but here we are!
Smash room. Dark, smoky, loud music, bar-like set up with matching odour (I might actually get drunk off these fumes). Poor storyline that is unnecessary, but loads of glasswork we can, well, smash. DESTROY. My heart cheers.
And it’s all legal! Breaking things LEGALLY! Woohoo!
Anyway, after making it through the flashy lights phase, we break open a safe (?? Why do people insist on creating a storyline for a smash room? Really, just hand me a baseball bat and some safety goggles. That’s all I need!) and get our hands on some very bouncy tennis balls we can use to break alllllll the bottles on the bar with.
I mean, attempt to break the bottles with. For as it turns out, neither my sister nor yours truly is very good at aiming. Oops!
After we have some fun with failing, a second room opens: there’s a copper standard, some lead pipes, and a Whole Supply Of Empty Bottles
This Dream Come True soon threatens to turn into a nightmare, as we also manage to non-smash the bottles (WHAT were they made of?? I mean, HELLO you’re a glass bottle, if you meet a wall at least have the decency to splinter!).
For my dozenth or so attempt, I place another bottle on the standard, grab the lead pipe (it was Elle with the Lead Pipe in the Smash Room), take a firm stance, and exhale.
The bottle explodes under my swing.
The next one bows down to my rage as I hit it for my nephew and niece.
The third one goes down for my deceased niece.
Bottles follow for my eldest sister’s absence and lies, for the house I didn’t get, for having to accept there’s no romance in store for me, for my dad’s “illness” and the toll it takes on me, for the winter coat scam I fell for, and for every other thing that ****ing went wrong this year!
…
Afterwards, stirring our coffees, my sister expresses how impressed she was with me.
“You really found your swing! Those bottles didn’t know what hit them,” she chuckles. “What’s gotten into you?”
“No,” I reply.
“It’s what got out.”
I’m pulling one over Life, as I’ve decided to write a book. Well, a collection of poems more like. It’s going to be called Solitude in Red and will span 13 months, going from October to October. The second theme is Rage and the poem up there is part of the collection.
Elle Vampa 