Why then these dark days — now. The past
wore a whiter gown, the firm ground spoke
in softer tones then, hushed hues of no dawn
when once I dared to tread her path
towards a garden, safe — and secret.
Those days were not as these days are —
fragments of a past
becoming a future
unwanted.
Silence. Darkness. Dreams.
I crave winter. Snorting snow. Dreaming
— Manual Override: power
off still
of virtues lost
among
men
evanescent
.
I have no fear
of being forgotten; turn into mist
drifting
towards the memoryless. No past. No
garden to nurture. A future is a hope
I cannot sustain — solitude a menace
sans lipstick. I have no fear
of being forgotten — I am already
that.
“You claim to have in your possession recorded … evidence … from my initial assessment. I spoke with you then — what evidence, did I? I have no memories of, as you put it, committing … to life,” the old man said, then slowly rose from the congenial couch and staggered towards the warbling water cooler. “I am old, too old for all these … sentience shenanigans. Tired of … being tired. If life is not a certitude and merely a merciless way out I would very much like an audience with the Scribbler; there is substance needing scrutiny. I am not going back there. Not I. Never.”
“The truth is —” she wheezed, “life’s not for everyone. There’ll be days when you’ll want to give it back, to return here, expecting to find peace in the comfort of the Scribbler. Muse on that brief motif, then seek at heart the answer needing your attention: you’re sure you’re ready — to commit?”
I carry a liberated larder
on my back, an empty larder
it is not
>>>> a secret
but like a Jay it collects secrets — secrets
stored
for no one to see — only me
only mine
this burden of mine
like stockpiled swats seeking twilight targets
{
a lady’s fancy — that moth now departs
drawn towards another light;
}
I carry a larder, liberated
from the pressures of daily duties
offerings of open doors and otherwise
circumcised wormhole rules {dilly dallies}
<prostration; probation; cloudberry jam>
I carry a larder with me , , , , every , , , day
other toil
e
t
b
e
c
o
m
e
s
f
u
l
l
a
foil — for a lifelong search for meaning
up a slippery slope bent on mending
naught
of relevance — substance-less protuberances
in the void of one
still dreaming.
I only have my words
[ — nailed
upon a whitewashed
wall
]
as evidence;
I only hold them high
once every blue moon.
{ — dishwasher-dreams of more — }}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}
; tumbled dry —
moth ~ mother ~
madness ;
Our crown yields coin
in equivalence of 2p madness beyond our mind
tuppence
to penance
:666:
I only had my words —
but now I have
none
.
<monsters. madness. mirth>
I seek the words long lost. Substance. Mirth.
Mirth. I seek that which once were lost…
(mirth)
I am changing. Morphing
into another — like life
turning cancerous
my path no longer stretches
much farther
. I have already walked
too far [ too far already! ]
to turn back
to turn my back
on you — you said
the endless world must end
but not by my hand
[ I do not
understand ]
I am changing. Mürphïng —
īntọ ạnȯṯhẹr kịṋď
ôf ṣȯmęòŋẹ [ I do not understand ]
Insta tells me of so many ppl
wanting to follow
me —
in text on “Threads”
Why?
What is a “thread”
but a stretched-out tumble
&
on Tumblr I exist
in text,
I exist
here
I am
here
by fear
rooted
among the corpses
of the fallen
seeking my presence
elsewhere
where
I am
no
thing.
The endless life ended
with a chuckle —
Death hung from a moist ceiling
like a bat in their mountain cave,
a rusty scythe floated midair,
chessboard & pieces scattered
around my naked feet —
You’re not ready, Daughter of Night.
And You, I see, still cannot play for keeps!
The endless life ended
with a chuckle —
Death disappeared seeking another
freshly minted tyro to rule —
ahead floated another doorway
left ajar and letting life flow
towards me, in waves of mirth
I had never tasted — so salty
the displaced lighthouse’s song,
yet I knew their words
meant my preservation
in this life
and every subsequent.
Blurred Vision — A Remedy in One Act
The poet attempted an attribution,
in thought of love and praise
to the long and winding ways
of Medicine, but
addressing specifics — shivers
that arose without thought
like withdrawal
from nicotine sticks
or Absinthe – wormwood juice
lacked adhesion like old glue
left in limbo — only to portray
the poet a fool / addicted / frail;addressing specifics — blurred vision
a general cause of concern &
the Cause of Concern for the poet
finding the general principles of sight
a bonus at their specific point in time:
the junction where tarmac ends
and gravel paths bind the journey’s end, blindnessavoided
— for now
by Dr Marvell and their
marvellous medical methods
aided by sharp surgical tools
making the cut
the ultrasound appliance
dissolving the opaque …
a silvery vacuum vortex
sucking up the dust
water
water
lots of water poured over the naked
unawares of what to come
unprotected
and by force held ajar
naked
unprotected
eye — the recipient
of the mint crystalline lens;but the poet failed
to convey
in thought of love and praise
to the long and winding ways
of Medicineas a single persistent utterance
interrupted
again and
again:What if — it happens again.
But now, 24h on, the poet pictures the theatre,
in darkness, centerstage
on the theatre of mischief — a single giant eye
seeing nothing but blurred shadows;
a surgeon general wearing silverware:
sharp utensils / knives / fork / spoons
and a cleaning lady hoovering up
bits of old poet no longer needed
as the clown juggles stress balls —
an offering
taken.
The surgeon general dines on old eyes,
telling the poet he’s doing all right,
but the clown drops the ball
trying to keep the poet’s nerve
still — still a futile endeavour
on the second serving
of eye.
In the theatre of mischief
two eyes were consumed,
one poet entered
while another roamed alone
out of the nonemergency exit
into a world of bright light,
new possibilities in a world
with clear sight.
And on the third day
of their new life,
the poet sensed anew
an ardent awareness
of the true value of sight —
to look out any window
seeing the wind dance
in the grey mist
over flowing green meadows
in time
the mist might clear
and stars appear
like diamonds
apt a goddess’s neck
in time
the goddess herself
might reawaken
that which was once — dead.
