I am old enough to remember when portable personal tape recorders were forbidden at concerts, bags were searched. Now? You get full concerts on YouTube in 4K with HDR and fantastic sound (must be stereo at least!) and recorded on a phone. Oh, how times change.
May 2022
Like Magic Moons
You slithering snake, tongue forked
And spitting,
My air guitar needs no tuning
Or tissues,
Our songs are screams at night;
Hollow yet bright
Like magic moons
Or Gouda.
Drought
Love? No. There’s none left, dry
the well once sparkling, dry
the tired eye yet searching, dry
the silent throat still burning, dry
the desert of dreams: mirages
no longer skim afar,
burning bushes wither,
the whispers of night
turned cold.
Love? No, the torrent times are over,
the flower blooms
no more.
To Feel!
Oh, to feel again! To feel!
Punctuate the windless void
with beat from hearts, tap
from trembling hands of light,
of desire, of rage!
Oh, to feel again! To feel
something touching me
there: to punctuate the void,
a numbness animated,
a needle needs but one end!
Oh, to feel again! To feel
another’s heavy heart,
another’s lavish light,
coming and becoming
desire, wind, and power!
Oh, to feel again! To feel!
To punctuate the windless void!
See Desire slowly rising!
Feel a welcoming wind’s embrace!
To feel! To feel! Oh, the Joy
it would bring!
Time / The Weary Wanderer
Stars born and stars dying,
Time had seen them come and go,
no children burn as bright as those
forged in the name of fire.
How long the path of the weary wanderer,
how much further still to go,
only Time will tail they said:
malapropism in a foreign accent.
But Time wouldn’t tell, couldn’t
tell, without hands, or legs,
to stand on. Time felt abused,
left to expire,
chastised for just staying true
to the one pukka power. How long
or how much longer will Time keep
going, as silver stars align
and the world of Men obsesses –
over nothing.
The old man shook his head, questioning the genetic makeup of his only son. There must be something wrong with him, force feeding a VHS tape into a Betamax recorder; any day now he’ll probably start questioning why the phone cord is curled, and then demand an extension, or, Lord forbid, a colour television.