• Vol. 03
  • Chapter 08
Image by

The Elephant Sitting In The Room

Under the old glass Orangery room,
Ladies having a cup
Of the finest Chinese tea,
Wearing red shaded lipsticks,
Smudged across their pink,
Powdered faces...
Tattooing the edges
Of the hand painted porcelains.
While their white bleached teeth are biting
Their sharp bleeding tongues,
They hide underneath.

The elephant is sitting in the room...

Along the long marbled corridors,
Doors open and close,
As the newcomer slowly walks by...
The crystal chandelier hanging above,
Silently watches their deceits and skims.
Whispers ecoing bitchery,
Fade against the Portuguese tiles
Decorating the lonely sumptuous Palace's walls.

"The pearls that adorn her neck are not rare enough...
The buckles of her shoes do not shine enough...
The image in her mirror does not reflect our 'noble' upbringing...
She has no right to be here!"
They whisper behind each other's burning ears.


The Elephant Sitting In The Room

Strolling along the rose gardens,
They look over their glued fake eye lashes,
Moving them frenetically up and down,
Like dazed multicoloured butterflies,
Or moths dancing towards the light.
They group like African bees,
Fighting over a wild flower,
Sucking it with immense desperation,
Until there is nothing else they need.
She will be finally left alone,
Like an Egyptian ancient vessel,
Empty and forgotten,
Amongst the old pieces in a museum.

The witches are back in their caves,
Patiently adding ingredients
To the the boiling mixture,
Cooking inside the caldron,
Which is made of iron and fear.
While they are stirring their potion,
They dream of nothing else,
But their final feast.


The Elephant Sitting In The Room

In the lavish banquet,
Madames and madmoaselies,
Sit around the embellished table,
Keeping their fatal weapons,
Between their squeezed legs.
Broken shards of glass,
Silvery cutlery
Sharp pointed forks and knives,
Hidden under their silk embroidered skirts.

Do not expect mercy,
From these 'well educated' ladies,<br Wearing expensive outfits, Made of the rarest silk and lace. After the party, They drive away in their golden carriages, With their hearts adorned by the most exquisite jewels, But inside their hearts, They are hollow and dark. Every morning, They spray perfume over their tongues, They wash them with lemon oils and glicerine soaps, To disguise the rotten smell of decay, That spills from their open guts. Underneath the golden threads, Hand made lace and pearls, Pink diamonds, rubies and the greenest emeralds, They are poorer than the poorest beggars, Wearing teared rags, Sleeping under bridges. What is the reason of their plots? ( you may ask me) We may never know. Deceit? Deception? Duplicity?

Or misleading treachery?
They will stab you one day,
But they will return smiling,
The next morning,
With their bleached white teeth,
Holding a bouquet of flowers
And an invitation for a 'friendly' cup of Chinese tea,
In a glass Orangery...