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Carla Marie May 4
i missed my calling
but not my window
ive lived to tolerate
about my age
and my grays
and better days
but its okay
cuz my best days are
right now...

window still wide open
letting in and out
my flow...
and peaceful chaos
and sultry ****
from all the years of
**** i know
neth jones Apr 2
basemented   this liminal vivarium of cool moulded plastic
             with mirrors standing in for windows
and a ring of branded restaurants taking refuge at the edges
    all familiar     no surprises
the staff set up
         for the consumers morning
                      of slack mastication
      (Local chain, national, international)
the old-timers   glomming into clump
    benign zombies
an arrangement of fellas with dissolving jaws
  cudding over mammary notions
       untailored in sacky pallid sultana skins
    reform in a mumble
doing snailish pinball movements
            crossing and recrossing floors
         cleanly tiled for biohazard accidents
               salivating about the savoury soft foods to come

the restaurants rattle-shake-raise their security blinds

also noted
a mixed bag of people projecting
      into their smooth glowing slablets
    making out like worldly fools

also present
cropped and groomed toy security
      peering between the fronds of plastic foliage

public bathrooms   the first struggling **** of the day

also present
a bench of  youngsters in bright blue screen matching pjs
  the four employees of sanitation
      drumming up for the shift

see also
vague happy lady in a  garish sarong
importing her holiday religion
berri metro food court / late summer 2023
Zywa Mar 25

of old people's buildings is --

their name: Home of Loss.
Novel "Spertyd" ("Deadline", 2017, Elsa Joubert)

Collection "After the festivities"
Zywa Mar 24
A new appointment,

and today my first grey hair:

what many changes!
Poem "My first grey hair appeared", 806, Bai Juyi) - "Just ten days after starting this new job, I looked in the mirror and noticed I had sprung two new gray hairs."

Collection "Stream"
Francie Lynch Mar 17
I'm disappearing.
Bit by tiny bit.
I'm becoming a mosaic
Of technological parts.
I'm not bionic,
I've a real heart;
But aids help me hear;
Implants help me chew;
Stainless steel lets me kneel,
I wear specs to see you.

Nothing man-made can last;
Not like mountains and forests
That don't need my resources.
You may say these things aren't living, as such...
But you'd be wrong.
You may argue I am not living as such...
You'd be wrong again.
I need batteries and oil,
Scripts or x-rays to prove it,
But the proof is there.
I'm shedding skin, losing hair,
Have diminished hearing and sight;
My legs are sore and tired and my back...
Oh my back...
Yes, I am disappearing
And will be remembered for a generation;
As my grandfather was with me.
When my brain disappears,
So will he.
selina Feb 28
i fall asleep in the back of ubers, to the sounds
of middle-aged drivers talking to their loved ones
giving advice, the smell of spice, my temple on the window
just playing a mental jeopardy with the meanings behind
those accented words of languages i don't understand
perhaps, once upon a time, i did, but now, no longer

i sleep like a stranger in my own home, climbing
into my bed without caution, with atrophying bones
it's a debilitating exhaustion, it's characteristic of aging
of falling and forgetting about the friendships and benefits
that broke through my bed slats, plus the flash-lit attempts
to fix the unfixable with feminist texts and crumpled cash

i dream about my mother as another, and her neck
remains untouched, perhaps only adorned with pearls
so wide, and so bright, and the garage door is always unlocked
it's comfort, it's nostalgia, it's the furthest i've been from home
and when the radio turns on, i wake to unfamiliar laughter, and
"i miss my dog, and i miss falling in love," and everything's amiss
and all i can do is sit here, tipping a stranger as i reminisce
nothing like a long uber ride
neth jones Feb 18
a troubled little wisp of waxy death   punches from my lips
(is it the exhaust   from many thriving microorganisms ?)
there it is   a clearly visible tiny cloud formation
(is this an indication?... the breaking down my over ripened form ?)
married also is its appearance  in the bathroom mirror
(confirmation that   it is no illusion)

i was quite casual about the event (thank you)
but not enough
              to stop me noting it here ;
call it   'the death weather report'
it shall be journaled further
i already feel observed
   as though by some bored student mortician
I’ve a soft spot for you;
you press my tender button.
My heart’s a big furry teddy bear
with arms wide open.
I want to ruffle up your hair--what’s left of it.
Walk over here— my lap’s for you to sit.
Wait, you’re too heavy— I forget that you’re a man.
Perhaps I'll sit on top of you—
that's a better plan.
I’ve bought you dark chocolates-- treats for my sweet boy.
You’ve brought me red wine-- when I’m drunk, I am your toy.
Playtime’s fun; we can make or break the rules--
we’ll play House; we’ll play School.
We'll play all through our nap time, until the coffee's brewed.
We'll add some sprigs of wild thyme to our diabetic food.
Kagey Sage Jan 29
I sense loss and yearning all around
I used to chalk it up as a personal hurdle to jump
or just the feeling of aging while the youth still goes on
Yet I think I this malaise is widespread
Impacting all of us in our glitching global trade

I used to think the issue was there’s just too much now
Too much to watch, listen, and taste
You don’t need the hunt anymore
Don’t need to wait or pay some exorbitant price
I used to feel overstimulated by the streams
and just could not decide
I still feel, it’s not that we want to do the thing,
but we yearn to want to want to do the thing

Is that all that’s changed?
Those who are not ready to be creators
will certainly not be ready to be curators
Freed ourselves from DJs and TV programming
but what control have we flailed ourselves into?
Wasting hours a day watching 30 second videos
whose categories are heavily curated
impersonally, just for you
Remember when user preferences worked
and in searches they wouldn’t hide the whole list
of all that was relevant and new?
Rosie Jan 15
Beneath the canvas of the starlit sky,
A beacon burns, a lullaby.
Through shadows cast, a tale unfolds,
Of a love more precious than gold.

In shadows interlaced, the glow would sing,
A celestial whisper, a familiar wing.
I'd stray at times, chasing the day's fleeting gleam,
Questioning the light, like a forgotten dream.

Resentment clung to the flickering light,
As if returning home was a surrender to night.
In my heart, a whisper of pride,
Home meant I hadn't soared wide.

Through the years, the light reframes,
No longer a symbol of forgotten aims.
Like moth to a flame, I’d circle back,
To a hearth that murmured, a quiet track.

Now, the light's not a sign, not a line in the sand,
But a soft place to land, in an unknown land.
A sanctuary, a heartbeat, a welcoming roam,
In the cadence of shadows, I find my home.

The door swings wide with a creak and a sigh,
A refuge awaits, where tears can dry.
So, as I wander life's unknown,
The light guides me back, a beacon of home.
I may see home different, but the light always stays on.
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