5 December, 2015
(The Missing) subtle creatures, without face sparked with life, from spirit fed assemblaged to live to set foot, another world filaments of hope, destroyed by necessity or fate unfinished form function loss or tech trashed no slide, to light no entry, to mortality no shock, to breath no life, to live, as to live no feeling, the grass under the toes no warming, the sun on the skin no loving, the spirit of a third no channelling, the energy for their world
Laugh A deep hearted laugh, three time times after another not so deep, not so high, just right with timbre light at each verse Firm, but not solid like stones, skiping the lake filling the heart with joy
On a summers day, in a shady wood somewhere, near a quiet pond, a grasshopper asked the frog, sitting on a water lily, What is love? a near by swallow chirped in and said: It is when you feel as though you can keep flying up and up so high in the sky and feel the sun rays on your soul. the hedgehog said: It’s when you can roll up somewhere cosy with your partner and feel safe on a miserable day.
Cold cold room, tall, no sun three woman high five by three, small yet not large, walkable seventy rounds, one kilometre stone, upon stone sixty centimetre walls solid, functional Cold Cold To The Eye cold walls, white, plastered, thrown on, over time, rippled, dented, rough white paint, covering, thick, runny, fingers the floor, concrete, overcast grey functional, used, stained paint, coffee, paper green, white, red works of blood unseeable To the eye
The mind itself, opened panning, thoughts grasping whispers of other thoughts tucked away, between lines of moth eared pages, books, heavy stapled, in room, past and present, in mind Sartre, Wild, Friedman, García The mind itself, a treasure a book of thousands pages, each rich, heavy, thick cloister embroidered, illuminated, with gems delicately inlaid, of sparkling knowledge The mind itself, processing thoughts, unclassified, film fragments, dialectic scenes, from this and other worlds in fast mode, photocopying adding to the the world around
Why? why? the pain rising despair feeling left, left alone the anger the unrightousness he had no right even if he didn’t know yet he knew then why? the hurt stab, deep, lost memories deeper, ripping the trust, ropey bridge hanging, to hope being slashed anchors, hobnailed kicked flying deep, winding gorge of loss forever how could he cruel cheap he should have known better he loved me
I am more than an employee I am more than a servant I am more than an image I am more than an engineer I am more than a thinker I am more than a husband I am more than a lover I am more than a father I am more than a man I am more than a human I am more than a spirt I am my self
The Room, empty, except for one, and one One, just burnt long night the flame loders, at the ligaments, as they pause the life, around, down, all systems, down grey one feels washed out, an old carpet an old damp carpet The sun low, tucked away, behind a roof top here, snug sitting, in the big, The Room the noise of cars, in the background, people going about, industrious One, dog, on the carpet, lying, the stick between his paws, crunching, crunching out the sound out of the side of his mouth he looks up, as though to say “whats up?
I am not what I am not, And what is not is not what is not not For what is not may not not not
The Bold Thinker Bold head, high, looking at you then tilted, offside to one o’clock feeling Bold he sits, there not just anywhere sitting, there on that spot waiting Bold he sits waiting, for you, searching, in his mind, for something, to happen to be said thinking Bold he sits and thinks of what could be said or be done of what you think of what you feel quietly Dedicated to Fred
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