"assembling" poems
*She is on the street in her little kiosk ,
at the break of the dawn ,
When many are still on a lucid dream.
Selling the most delicious of grapes
Sourced straight from the vineyards
Assembling the previous day's discards all in a tray
Discards For humans it maybe ,
But
for her birds its a treat to relish .
Swooping
down for it ,day after day..
Mostly bought by the morning walkers ,
Many in numbers are they
old patrons , as they say.
Every day she sells her wares
Holding the loveliest of smile
That I have seen in years,
All Knowing , the pain that she hides behind .
Never misses a day nor business,
And back home she is before sundown.
Only to return the following day,
With a new stock ,at the break of the dawn.*
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 1:45 AM UTC
When the morning was waking over the war
He put on his clothes and stepped out and he died,
The locks yawned loose and a blast blew them wide,
He dropped where he loved on the burst pavement stone
And the funeral grains of the slaughtered floor.
Tell his street on its back he stopped a sun
And the craters of his eyes grew springshots and fire
When all the keys shot from the locks, and rang.
Dig no more for the chains of his grey-haired heart.
The heavenly ambulance drawn by a wound
Assembling waits for the spade's ring on the cage.
O keep his bones away from the common cart,
The morning is flying on the wings of his age
And a hundred storks perch on the sun's right hand.
7.3k
“The most important scientific revolutions all include, as their only common feature, the dethronement of human arrogance from one pedestal after another of previous convictions about our centrality in the cosmos.”
Stephen Jay Gould
Give me
vacuum tube torus Lorentz-Klein interference receptors
dual noble-gas maser integration processors
at least one
prosthetic Gaussian carbon-coated ribosomal Tesla coil
an anthropomorphic hierarchical temporal meme-pseudopod
some
support vector k-nearest neighbor algorithms
reverse engineered quantum optic die-cast silica motherboards
self-assembling three dimensional electro-active protein polymers
maybe even
a superconducting spectral alkali resonance analyzer
paired with
harmonizing piezoelectric kinematic thermal modules
dipped in
subzero Kurzweil-circuit nanite neurotransmitters
and voila!
God.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 5:18 PM UTC
A hymn to paired planethood: Venus hits Pluto
as death, in cold orbit, collides with biology
smashing to fragments: demonic astrology
(more a black hole than a love-star, it’s true though).
Cynical cure for Eve’s womanly grievance
Concupiscent consequence: lust’s bitter fruit –
ah the thought… changing Sin into mere inconvenience.
Margaret sang her seductive refrain
about weeding the garden and progress and light.
Her sisters should view her with scornful disdain
but instead have adopted her murderous rite.
With sang-froid she promoted her racist eugenics
(as if she had never herself been a fetus),
condemning her heirs to postmodern polemics
while nurturing ardent desires to defeat us.
Suppressing the lives that she flushed down the drain
she would liberate Death – and resistance was vain.
As a midwife to modern life (though on the “anti” side)
Old Matron Margie racked up quite a legacy
singing the praises of sanctioned infanticide
calling the shots for the coming sick century.
Planning, quite calmly, to “cleanse” certain races
her zeal was empowered by murderous graces.
She labored to bring us such pearls of subduction:
“dilation and curettage”, “women’s autonomy”
“viable fetus”, “procedure”, a “suction”
Hippocrates retches to hear the taxonomy;
words that turn Life into mere reproduction.
She enters the realms of the ****** and the motherless
roundly condemned by her feminine otherness.
Man’s first protection: the God-given womb
which no infant should have to regard as their tomb.
Dismembered dark cherubs, assembling, greet her
as demons (in scrubs) holding baby-parts meet her.
Long may she burn with the medical cynics
this mother of Moloch, this founder of clinics.
Convenience is king when abortion’s the Queen
and the profits swell big with each nubile teen…
yet the fruit of such carnage remains to be seen.
I send her this song as a funeral wreath
and a card inked in blood. You may read what is there:
“To the Matrix Supreme of our culture of death
from the souls of the infants you slew on the earth.
May your torment increase with the children you bear.”
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
Pretty is a six-letter word that can’t encompass your entire being in its arms. You were born to a mother who wore pain like trees wear their rings, as marks of fierce bravery and battle cries. You almost split her insides open coming out, wailing so hard the plaster cracked, but she grinned and bore it like a champion, even though the walls of her womb felt like one giant cigarette burn that no one cared enough to put out.
You are Icarus incarnate, with a body stitched from wings, flying toward the sun every day no matter how low the storm clouds hover. Pretty is not a synonym for learning how to put together a body that fights itself every day with pocket knives, like assembling letters to form words that flame in the mouth. That’s called survival. Pretty is an ugly word. It leaves behind a bitter residue that apologies cannot erase. Pretty is just an excuse for playing darts with a woman’s confidence.
When told you are not pretty, always remember how your body expanded to fit its widening cage, its blooming hips, how the growing pains were less like pain and more like cracking fault lines. How your body turned itself inside out and spilled over and over again. Getting emptied is not pretty. It is dark and wounding and it requires strength enough to move mountains.
On your worst days do not look in the mirror and call yourself pretty. Call yourself trying, call yourself surviving, call yourself learning how to get through a day, a week, a month or year. Call yourself still learning. Pretty is just six letters for lipstick, false eyelashes, combs for hair that never gets tangled, not for women who earn a victory every day just managing to exist.
When told you are not pretty, do not **** in your stomach. Pretty is a discriminatory word, but having a body that knows what it wants and gets what it wants is not a hate crime. It’s a healing hymn.
Don’t forget how trees shake their last leaves in winter like they’re shedding skin from the old year. Shed pretty. Shed it now. Teach yourself to replace it with heart-wrenching, brilliant, clever, artistic, unique, understanding, fighting. Always living.
When told you are not pretty, don’t fall in love with the ground. Get back up. This is not an apocalypse; this is not the end of the world. A six-letter word doesn’t have the power to burn down every building in site or freeze the entire world in epic proportions. Your body is not wreckage or refuse left over from a world on fire. Your body is just fine.
Look in the mirror. Tell yourself, Pretty is not me. Pretty is an ugly concept. I am more.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 6:59 AM UTC
hello hello hello
what have we got here
a few ships assembling
with highly explosive
gear
hello hello hello
who shall fire the first shot
into the Syrian
plot
hello hello hello
America and Russia
are on opposing sides
the gulf in their opinions
very wide
hello hello hello
the world
shall see a drama
most potent
others in
the Middle Eastern
corridor
may get
involved too
that will be a show
which may mean
a powder keg
that can't be
subdued
hello hello hello
why have men
in power
always had a yen
to be war faring
and not think
of their fellow
men women and children
hello hello hello
this time the lesson
may come at an extremely high cost
for it may well
bring end
to all existence
on the planet
as we know it....
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 9:03 PM UTC
She kisses like the reading of an ancient poem
With lips clouded by their own sighs,
So too with all her mock moons, paraselenae,
Obnubilations over her luminous mind,
Her last desperate pulchritude of night,
Chaste labors of assembling unspoiled dew:
Just crumbs of breath at the Greek feast of wind,
New sun pouring in to the clay flowers of our lungs.
Dec 31, 2022
Dec 31, 2022 at 11:22 PM UTC
Under his mighty authority, he sent forth a pair of spies
Hidden by a harlot they now became Joshua’s eyes.
Saving her and all that she has for what she hath done
Later when they come to burn down the city
Her and her family will be spared, there the only one.
Assembling a band of seven priest’s in those strange lands
He’s ordering them to encompass and circle the city
While carrying the Ark of Covenant in their holy hands.
Preparations now begin for a symphony of destruction
it is for all the other inhabitants, due to all the corruption.
Commanded until the appointed time to remain in silence
After that, scream and shout loud with ragging violence.
Marching with the trumpets at their side and on their hips
It’s the seventh day, and now, they must make seven trips.
The walls then came crumbling down,
After they blew through those ram horns with their lips.
Taking there treasures, the spoils of war...
They took it for the Lord's treasury,
That is who they took it for.
AMEN
(SirCARSr. 11-25-13)
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 1:38 PM UTC
My muse had a good idea,
Let's flood the world with Ikea!
Dysfunctional kits, there and here.
For guns and bombs here
No one would care.
They would be assembling Ikea,
Each kit, four missing bits,
Wrong pictures to give them the blip,
Globally occupied with dysfunctional Ikea,
Now isn't this a good idea?
Peace on Earth brought by Ikea.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 2:20 AM UTC
Jordan gave me rose quartz prayer beads. Freddy picked me up and spun me around.
I kissed the beads and kissed my hand and blew it to the stars, over and over again.
Thank you universe, for the kind hearted people you have dropped into my existence.
Thank you universe, for the good music, the good **** good wine, and good company.
Thank you, for the smiles, the laughs, the cigarettes, the numbers given out on backs of receipts.
Thank you for the swing sets, the campfires, the coffee and tea, the cars we drive around in.
Thank you for emotions.
Thank you for the feeling I get when someone kisses my forehead,
the feeling when someone compliments my smile,
the feeling when I notice the moon for the first time that evening.
Thank you, for the moon, the stars, the clouds, and the autumn breeze.
Thank you for the sounds, the crickets, the leaves rustling, the clinking glasses,
and the sound of small kisses.
Thank you for the snort I get when I laugh to hard.
Thank you for the bass, the guitar, the drums.
Thank you for the shouts, the soft spoken, the loud, and the whispers.
Thank you for the doors, the staircases, and the windows.
Thank you for everything that ever was, is, and will be.
Thank you for the indefiniteness of the now.
Thank you for everything.
I once read in a book, that the likelihood of our proteins folding just so to make us what we are is comparable to that of a twister rolling through a junkyard and assembling a jumbo jet.
This is something I like to remind myself daily.
It is so miraculous that we are here today to experience everything and everyone around us, and be able to document and share it.
I hope one day someone can look at my photographs and writings and feel these immense and overwhelming emotions that I feel in these moments.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 6:10 AM UTC
Classroom Discussion
Raucous noise vibrates across
The surface of my ear
Not daring to enter and disrupt
The train of thought
That processes as a machine
Turning, creating, assembling
The wheel of thought spinning round the axle
-------A **** on the rope, a pull on the subconscious
The pulley recognizes the intrusion of an applied force
The wheels halt, as if rust jeopardizes its advance.
The thoughts scatter, a snapped electrical wire snaking in shock;
a cooper waving current racing back to a reality
through black rubber nerves.
The noise registers,
confirming the split of a once continuous wire
Insignificant words- not quite processing,
failing to relay information,
refusing to form a sentence,
still trapped in a realm of limbo
wanting to return to the rhythm of a reverie.
Slipping, falling
the mind surrenders, the electricity dies.
Materializing in a classroom
The cage for intellectual minds
Discussing about.
From one world to another - act, adapt
The bright scientific lights burn
The eyes of the dreamer
Who creates from the dark,
Objects exposed, judged, determined.
No place for the dreamer, who loves
warping reality.
Within the metal box this reality is set.
Bars on the window, an indestructible verticality
Plastic seats, beige, blue, cold
Sit this way, look up, right, like that.
You are my animals now speak, raise a hand,
perform a trick, tell me what I want to hear,
Speak my language of intelligence, be my machine.
May 2, 2011
May 2, 2011 at 5:11 AM UTC
When Charlie was a young'un with a crayon and some paper
He would scribble til the paper ripped and the crayon turned to vapour
His mother would console him and she'd offer her advice
But just to drive the message home, she'd loudly sing it twice
Follow the lines, my boy, just follow the bleedin' lines
Just pick a side and stay there, always follow the lines
If you're not a fool then fake it
If you show your spine they'll break it
Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines
So when Charlie went to high school, how he tried to walk in stride
But the boredom of geometry provoked his naughty side
His professor would chastise him with a ruler and a cane
And, as an aid to memory, he sang him twice again
Follow the lines, young Charlie, you follow the blasted lines
Give it a try, you'll soon see, never cross over the lines
Don't be smart or play the joker
Aim for mainly mediocre
Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines
When assembling a wardrobe with his Allen key and spanner
He threw himself into his task in an overzealous manner
So when he called his father to report a broken bone
His old man tutted ruefully and sang right down the phone
Follow the lines now Charlie, just follow the ******* lines
Don't improvise or gamble, why didn't you follow the lines
Dodge unnecessary ructions
And adhere to the instructions
Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines
So in time, he raised a family, the lines etched in his head
One day he heard a buzzing from his aging garden shed
As he listened at the planking, how his face was drawn and long
For between the buzz and rustle, squeaked a tiny little song
Follow the lines, buzz-buzz, just follow the buzz-ing lines
Follow the bee before you, just buzz and follow the lines
Find the flowers when it's sunny
Fetch the nectar, make the honey
Follow the lines, follow the lines, follow the lines
Buzz buzz
**
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 10:09 AM UTC
Social breaks and cultural ridges,
Double takes and building bridges,
Seems like ages, for twenty four hour wages,
Boys to men in uniforms, training in stages,
To be soldiers, first, Engineers, second,
Every province shares, before The Reckoning,
Hands calloused, hearts as well, hands hold a couple o' beers,
Which will rouse, the parts, when the day is done, with cheers!
Thing, an exercise called a bridge gallop, where
For two weeks and twenty two hours a day we share,
A work ethic to assemble and strip bridges built,
Practice for the real deal, with a unified will,
We all know when some one else is not lift-
ing their load, brothers in arms not using theirs,
But we built bridges, long day into night
we played Euchre, in the down time,
Short night into day, smoky rooms and beers,
In play, we called empty brown beer bottles,
Dead soldiers,
We became a unit, unified, by our trade,
Jack of all trades, master of none,
All of us were from Canada's various parts,
Building bridges, in the light, in the dark.
Assembling parts, to make a whole, bridge,
From bank seat, to bank seat,
It took many bridges, for Canada to meet,
The soldiers and Engineers, UBIQUE.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 12:12 AM UTC
Look at the sky and now look at me
Like those wonderful planets, is that how you want to be?
They might be magnificent but they keep doing the same
They circle around with fun neither shame
Together we can break such a routine
Life can be better than it sometimes may seem
All you have to do is accept the good parts
Don’t resist, but enjoy this assembling of hearts
Look at the sea and now look at me
Like these glimmering waves, is that how you want to be?
They grow and they grow but they die at the shore
Growing seems to be all that they are living for
Now learning is good but what is life without pleasure
For just one night you could be my loved treasure
I might be different from all you know and all you’ll ever see
But doesn’t that make you realise how special this could be
Look at the sand around us and now look at me
This actually is how I would like us to be
Close together at the most precious place
Evermore near the sea, the sky and your gorgeous face
I don’t expect us to live forever here
But please don’t let my whole wish end up in a tear
Now please stop my longing and come oh so close
Together we will be like a blooming rose
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 5:20 PM UTC
649
Her Sweet turn to leave the Homestead
Came the Darker Way—
Carriages—Be Sure—and Guests—too—
But for Holiday
’Tis more pitiful Endeavor
Than did Loaded Sea
O’er the Curls attempt to caper
It had cast away—
Never Bride had such Assembling—
Never kinsmen kneeled
To salute so fair a Forehead—
Garland be indeed—
Fitter Feet—of Her before us—
Than whatever Brow
Art of Snow—or Trick of Lily
Possibly bestow
Of Her Father—Whoso ask Her—
He shall seek as high
As the Palm—that serve the Desert—
To obtain the Sky—
Distance—be Her only Motion—
If ’tis Nay—or Yes—
Acquiescence—or Demurral—
Whosoever guess—
He—must pass the Crystal Angle
That obscure Her face—
He—must have achieved in person
Equal Paradise—
2.4k
Grey clouds surround me,
Thick to inhale,
Impossible to recognize shapes through
And then I feel it
All at once,
As if something deep from within tugs on every fiber of my being
I spin to face a shape assembling through the fog,
Slowly advancing,
Reaching out a hand that beckons my soul forward
Then I wake,
Pulled out of the dream,
Left wondering if it is possible to love a face that has never truly been seen?
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 8:16 PM UTC
never knew it,
never was I self-percepted,
that anything exceptional,
lay within, neither obvious
or dormant, was just an ordinary
if not, extra-ordinary pained
child by peers and my surrounders
and my own words yet today,
do not confer any distinction
when yours irradiate me into
a stunned and silenced reverie,
a reminder, a minder, that talent
recognizes no laws of equilibrium,
equality, and certainty not, equity
so I read with shocked, shocked, I tell you,
bemusement but comprehensive perception
when the young and extra~special confide,
their own misperceptions, overwhelmed by
the anxiety
of the billions of sky stars, and letters in their
twinkling orbs when forming identifiable comets with tagalong
dust trails^ of the debris of words that are formed by
their travels and travails on orbits
not necessarily predetermined
by gravitational adult pulleys, a gravity upon
their projected, sometimes directed,
sometimes not,
trajectory
*"and yet, though an orbit is a type of trajectory,
not all trajectories are orbits"*
nor are
*"some comets, particularly
those from outside our solar system,
that move so fast that the Sun's gravity
is not strong enough to capture them
into a closed orbit*
*These comets follow an open, curved path
through the solar system and then
continue on into interstellar space,
never to be seen again*"
so be advised,
as you reassemble the debris from the multi~universe,
when assembling your owned,
unique~verse,
create your tail
and trail,
the futurity
of you is to be both
silent and loud,
absorbing and disgorging,
to awed and to be humbled,
by all that and those who went before,
all once younger and talented,
and knew this self-same anxiety,
but never let the fearing of their
the mystery of plotting of their
path
deter them
from exploring the skies and deep mines of the
sea trenches where undiscovered mysteries
abide
<nml>
4:59am
in the city where one can never see the
light of the stars,
particularly
by their owners
Oct 1, 2025
Oct 1, 2025 at 7:25 AM UTC
Light-years north of the purple, zephyr dome.
The saccharine amulet is like euphoria
Buried below the wet soil of Utopian plains,
An aura born of visual brilliance like the aurora borealis
Is this the homely orphanage for poetic spirits and souls?
The intuitive life- forms worthy of sempiternal light?
Tyrant Ignoramus's army is multiplying,
And assembling more power,
Lascivious like an extreme **********
Certainty of survival? No, there is not,
Nervous like claustrophobic Nibbana.
Life-forces forced to test
The stability of the precipice.
Can balance be maintained?
Only for so long....
Loping for miles,
Exhausting it must be,
Their hooves must go on and on,
Heedless of stopping.
Past Ignoramus's Fortress,
Past the Alchemist's Bridge over yonder,
Light-years north of the purple, zephyr dome.
The saccharine amulet is like euphoria
Buried below the wet soil of the Utopian plains,
An aura born of visual brilliance like the aurora borealis.
This is the homely orphanage for poetic spirits and souls,
The intuitive life-forms worthy of sempiternal light.
Originally written 7/30/11
Revised 10/17/14
(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 2:44 PM UTC
When you are told you are not pretty:
Pretty is a six-letter word that can’t encompass your entire being in its arms. You were born to a mother who wore pain like trees wear their rings, as marks of fierce bravery and battle cries. You almost split her insides open coming out, wailing so hard the plaster cracked, but she grinned and bore it like a champion, even though the walls of her womb felt like one giant cigarette burn that no one cared enough to put out.
You are Icarus incarnate, with a body stitched from wings, flying toward the sun every day no matter how low the storm clouds hover. Pretty is not a synonym for learning how to put together a body that fights itself every day with pocket knives, like assembling letters to form words that flame in the mouth. That’s called survival. Pretty is an ugly word. It leaves behind a bitter residue that apologies cannot erase. Pretty is just an excuse for playing darts with a woman’s confidence.
When told you are not pretty, always remember how your body expanded to fit its widening cage, its blooming hips, how the growing pains were less like pain and more like cracking fault lines. How your body turned itself inside out and spilled over and over again. Getting emptied is not pretty. It is dark and wounding and it requires strength enough to move mountains.
On your worst days do not look in the mirror and call yourself pretty. Call yourself trying, call yourself surviving, call yourself learning how to get through a day, a week, a month or year. Call yourself still learning. Pretty is just six letters for lipstick, false eyelashes, combs for hair that never gets tangled, not for women who earn a victory every day just managing to exist.
When told you are not pretty, do not **** in your stomach. Pretty is a discriminatory word, but having a body that knows what it wants and gets what it wants is not a hate crime. It’s a healing hymn.
Don’t forget how trees shake their last leaves in winter like they’re shedding skin from the old year. Shed pretty. Shed it now. Teach yourself to replace it with heart-wrenching, brilliant, clever, artistic, unique, understanding, fighting. Always living.
When told you are not pretty, don’t fall in love with the ground. Get back up. This is not an apocalypse; this is not the end of the world. A six-letter word doesn’t have the power to burn down every building in site or freeze the entire world in epic proportions. Your body is not wreckage or refuse left over from a world on fire. Your body is just fine.
Look in the mirror. Tell yourself, Pretty is not me. Pretty is an ugly concept. I am more.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 6:48 PM UTC
I spent most of the 70's
Beneath a disco ball
In a Leisure suit
If that don't beat all
A kid from the country
Foot loose and free
Still makes me wonder
What that did to me
Spending my days
At Furniture Mart
Assembling recliners
While loading up cars
Making daily cash money
For night's at the bar
Dancing away
Under disco ball stars
Not really sure
Who we thought we were
Or of the purpose
The 70's served
Just a reminder of
What can go wrong
If you don't pay attention
To what's going on
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 1:06 PM UTC
'Twas the night before Christmas--Old Santa was ******
He cussed out the elves and threw down his list.
Miserable little brats, ungrateful little jerks.
I have a good mind to scrap the whole works!
I've busted my *** for **** near a year,
Instead of 'Thanks Santa'--what do I hear?
The old lady ******* cause I work late at night.
The elves want more money--The reindeer all fight.
Rudolph got drunk and goosed all the maids.
Donner is pregnant and ***** has AIDS.
And just when I thought that things would get better
Those ******** from the IRS sent me a letter,
They say I owe taxes--if that ain't **** funny
Who the hell ever sent Santa Claus any money?
And the kids these days--they all are the pits
They want the impossible--Those mean little *****
I spent a whole year making wagons and sleds
Assembling dolls...Their arms, legs and heads
I made a ton of yo yo's--No request for them,
They want computers and robots...they think - I'm IBM!
Flying through the air....dodging the trees
Falling down chimneys and skinning my knees
I'm quitting this job there's just no enjoyment
I'll sit on my fat *** and draw unemployment.
There's no Christmas this year now you know the reason,
I found me a blonde. I'm going SOUTH for the season
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 9:54 PM UTC
Early hours; the
parts of sleep
recalled;
a fly opening
it's silk cocoon,
a foetus moving
in a jelly womb,
irises and corneas
assembling into eyes
eager to explore
a world outside;
those first times
when regrets are
abstract concepts
not feelings
growing roots
in subconscious pools;
all the things I'd redo,
my deepest desire
to be anew
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 8:15 AM UTC
He was equipped with a fine vocabulary
Far in excess of his intellectual needs
An entertaining fool
Stocked with dictionaries
Obscure constructions
Medieval verbs
Circumlocutory, verbose
Impenetrable
A simple mind hid amongst
A confusion of entangled phrases
As if using a foreign language
Assembling hopefully meaningful phrases
Where a listener may find coherence
A simple message
Every request
Every Statement
Observation
From his mouth, no matter how mundane
Appeared decorated
Embellished, almost..
Baroque
In this wordy fog
It was hard to know
Hard to find
Traces of a real person
A tangible, relatable identity
Something predictable.
In the swirling wind of
Constantly shifting
Complex expressions
Seeming riddles.
He was a prisoner
A lifer
Doomed to remain
Incarcerated in his usage
Dense, cloying, exaggerated, unyielding
Usage
He could not avoid
Unconscious, reflexive, merciless
He did not struggle,
That ended long ago.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 2:15 AM UTC
She gives the gift of gab!
When her love snapped onto my back, like a rucksack to be worn
The old me died, a rambling man was born.
My words are playing a twisted game of Temple Run
The monkeys are her eyebrows, cocked like pistols, and we're playing Russian Roulette.
My words are emptiness and hot air and imagined shapes, yet not nearly as two-dimensional as constellations.
She's a phrase I just learned, and will incorrectly overuse.
She's a worm in my ear, impossible to lose.
She feels like two cups of tea at three in the morning.
She feels like assembling an RC car without reading the instruction manual.
And by God, those eyebrows.
I need her like rocks need water and snow needs the sun.
I want her like turtles want to fly and eagles want to run.
She's that feeling when rain comes down on an empty highway.
She's half a bottle of Elmer's glue I just dribbled onto my hands.
I miss her like broken bowls miss Cheerios and holey socks miss feet.
I miss her like diarrhea misses constipation.
I miss her like NBC misses viewers who have turned to online news sources.
I miss her like journalists miss exposés.
I miss her like polar bears miss ice caps.
I miss her like avalanches miss snowy peaks.
I miss her like Hiroshima survivors miss World War One.
I miss her like cities miss silence.
Mostly, I just miss the silence.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 5:34 AM UTC
15 March 2018
09:33 PM
In everything there appears to be a pure crystalline form
Chiseled, clear cut, categorised
Perfectly defined
We're one touch away from knowing everything and nothing all at once
Machines of habit
We're predictable, we're sequences and probabilities on a screen
Craving what we don't have and ignoring that we do
Seeing what's directly in sight and dismissing the depth
Imaging intangible possibilities yet living them through a screen
We know and don't care
We have arduously laboured over assembling a fortress in protection from fluctuation that we have unwittingly forged a cage
Lit by screens
Ruled by 'don't's
Deviation from living to halt death
Abruptly it did come, now slow does it wait
A blessing perhaps but for the dying, a curse
We uncover love so easily, so readily
and yet we lose touch of it so fast, despite our ever growing connections
We have knowledge
We have our memories to scroll through
We have lives to read about
We have inspiration upon every touch
We have it all a second away
Yet we spend our lives whiling away
In situ
Constantly buffering
k.g.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 1:55 PM UTC