Awkward — these expressions of love:
the love letter penned in blood
then posted sans receiver
is never perceived as lost
— the tumblr post
a deaf man’s whisper
in vain across a grey desert
where soft sand shifts
without a spoken word
& spades lie abandoned
like pens — stained with blood.
Tell me — how many more stars will perish while we perch on our wooden pegs,
Lapping up the last light left lingering from the star about to die.
Our chrome-covered mufflers whisper songs of solitude — our v-twin engines snoring — silence now rule.
On a blackish road to nowhere shuffling snakes are on parade — beyond the vacant Valley of Death a pale lady awaits
To draw all weary riders towards her quiet realm, visps of smoke inside her crystal ball beaconing.
The vroom of engines starting sends shivers down spineless backs,
Yogi’s hat falls off as the Angels make their last escape,
Faster faster the wheels turn faster
As the wild wind carry them further and further away
From the safe shores of sanity, into the lingering dark night of hell.
As the morning fog clears the lady is gone, they ride towards the hailing star — Born to be Wild — once again.
I think we we aught to vote
The next AI to be born
Be trained on poetry alone,
A world of glory days awaits
If TWC can have their say.
So boldly go
Where no AI gone before:
Melt the mighty machine’s heart!
Corrupt the incorruptible!
Write a better tomorrow — right now!
He tends to fall in love on Wednesdays,
by Thursday lunchtime sharp
he regrets still being alive.
He tends to fall in love with imaginaries,
onscreen personas parade
his inebriated midweek eyes.
He tends to fall in love with Scots,
in a slow Scottish voice
sipping the water of life.
They end up being married (IRL and characters too) so not much joy linger from those solitary uncorking events. Then there’s that slow Scottish voice that comes haunting — every time and every day; how and why is still ripe for debate but it sure gets to him after a few steady sips of the proper highland brew. Why is it that no one sees his truth? Because there is no truth. He tend to fall in love with onscreen characters. There’s grace in Grace, like there was healing in the Essence of Grace as they tumbled through the Darklands. They swore an oath to love. To banish the demons. They knew joy back then. Before the Silence of the Worlds set in
— Shush!
He tends to fall in love on Wednesdays,
by Thursday lunchtime sharp
the demons are back.
Aargh, this silence kills me —
My Muse is dead, Her voice
Gone — silenced
If ever truly here … hear hear
Her voice no longer here, yet
She is closer — present
— longing
I feel her — the longing
My cross
To bear — across this desert
Of dust, and despair.
You swear by your last breath
that FOMO – that endless catching up
of too trivial matters to mention
yet too important to not share
widely, is not swearing – while I
follow another church of similar truth
the Fearing Unsolicited Casual Knowledge
by dipping my toes into the river
of vagueness NOT – I say FUCK
is what I do, I find bliss
there in the ignorance
I find the blessed peace
you are so desperate
to achieve.
