Like a moth to the flame. Or so she was told. Everyone basked in her reflected light. And she quite enjoyed the sparks - dancing - momentarily around her, thinking that she was the center of it all. And maybe she was, until - the moth caught fire and she saw the wings burn. Savouring over her victory [unbeknownst till then] - the flame gave one last hiccup before extinguishing ... for good.

~~~ Whose victory? ~~~

Another piece written which reflects V (in my mind) and perhaps me too... idk

it
is gone
and there is
simply no way
of obtaining it back again. hard luck.
if you wanted, you could try ask around –
someone might know
where to look
and tell
you

S P Lowe Jan 8

sometimes
                                                       ­                         my
                                     ­ brain
                       doesn’t
                                                       ­     work

right
                                                ­                               and

                             my

                                              thoughts

     ­                                         scatter

               ­                                                    like
                               beads

                                     spilled
                               on
                                                              ­                 tile

floor

En el asilo de las almas trastornadas
Espera el Dr. de piel fría y azulada
Hijo de cíclope y algún demonio de mar
Sabe que piensas y te encontrara
Lleva consigo un cabeza reducida
Por si su ojo no es capaz
La cabeza diminuta gritara
Si tu alma esta atormentada
el lo sabra
Dice que es doctor
Pero yo creo que es carnicero
Carnivoro, como ave rapaz
Le falta cuerda
Le fala almorzar
Yo preferiría morir
Antes que volverlo a soñar.

Monstruos #I
jdotingham Dec 2017

sometimes life will deliver a plate of the inevitable climax; the blow, the snort, the soliloquy of concentrated thoughts all bombarding with the force of lead snow (of sorts). surrounding your mind, holding its weapons up high and cocking the trigger. things seem overwhelming. a climax you cannot stop, as you lay there squirming under the influence of goodwill (who tied you down, force-fed you pills and cocked your trigger as your weapon was up high). but the plate, the platter, the one you thought was silver and gold, was paper. then the sprinklers erupt like lava upon your world and the blow turns into a paste, the snort turns into a cold and the thoughts sag like they are in need of viagra. life climaxes then c

r u
m b
le
s - like that - sometimes

jdotingham Dec 2017

.      vate me;
  ele
u
                     put simply, just because you look
                                                            ­                    down
                                        ­                                                 on
                                                              ­                                me
                              ­              
                                          doesn't mean i should look ^2u
                    put simply, just because you love me,
                                                             eros?agape?phillia?
                                             ­                !you'renotspecificenough!
                     put simply, dis/approve of me, either/or it shall
                                                            fi­ll a me^

just a little excersise of concrete technique.
jdotingham Dec 2017

ant                                icipation
      creepsintomysoul
a.i.wait.for...

                      many things to (manythingmanythingsmany).
E
  X
    P
      L
        O
           D
              I
                N
                   G

[andimploding] in my MIND!
                             coffee.
                             typewriting the sign of the times
T Y P E T Y P E T Y P E T Y P E
expressYoUrSeLf
                               on
                           a scroll...
writing on the road. where will this go? no1nose.

just a little exercise on my concrete poetry.
Garry Nov 2017

From the cold, dank room; musty smells emanate,
The cold eye freezes and turns over in the frost,
Catch a star, falling far, falling free,
Shining for everyone; not just me
Trying to make sense of this entropy disorder,
Wet cat nose leather finds protection
from drying up in the hot weather,
A life? Maybe. Omniscient? No.
Turn away and find the inspiration
amongst the perspiration –
insurance against the inevitable alienation
Celebrate with the nation. All of them?  
Two colours, eye-gas, brain-grass, not in that shirt, Scott!
The crepuscular gloaming gives way,
Orange light now dominates the night,
keeping away the hurt and fright.
Drifting now, lost but not lonely. If only.
Size up the coffin and make marks
on the wall to measure how tall
Tear it down, sweep up the pieces and throw them away.
All will be revealed, my friend.
Perhaps.
One day.

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