Are you still searching for my indent
Traced by the moonlight
Seeking out the heat
The comfort of my bare skin
Is the instinct to extend your arms in the dark
To wrap me up
A mechanical reflex
A familiarity to soothe you back to sleep
A safety net
From the memories
That wander into your dreams
Does the mattress sigh
On only my side
Is the space so infinite
You get lost in it
A sea of covers
To drown in
Or is this the vastness
You were dreaming of
We flew aloft
On mechanical wings
And suddenly the heavens
Were within reach
To those who could
Build the machines
That could take them there
hold onto something for too long
or let it go too early
right on time
passing through both ways, she was
holding to a limb, heaving suddenly up
exhaling out again
stiff as the flotsam clung her
yet liquid, like everything, in the grand scheme of things
the grand scheme of things that is perfectly still
perfectly dead and reborn, somehow
the unseeable color just above
you'd never be right on time for me
you'd have to **** me and leave me scraped and scrapless
you're always too late
you flip nestlings to their deaths
a perfectly empty mechanical meaning
I wanted to fall in love, to swoon beneath you kisses,
thought my wishes would all come true
and yet I'm blue, I feel crashed and at an impasse
a loose connection or a faulty wire, when we touch there is no desire. Each time you spark, I sputter, if I had my druthers
I'd disappear, duck out of here, but I feel
flustered with this disconnect
from someone who I love and respect
yet chemistry isn't fallacy
and ours falls flat, no welcome mat
and now embarrassed we react instinctively
no longer friends, it's difficult to make amends
it depends on you, I'm open
and offer a token of respect
as I detect signs we'll probably reconnect.
batteries of memories stalled
now recalled bring on heady laughter
I think it's your turn to buy
the burgers and fries,
I'll buy the beer, have no fear,
this friendship comes without romance
yet it's enhanced with perfect schemes
how lucky I am to have you my friend even
though you're not the man of my dreams.
Bursting tanks of propane, all was in vain
I’m gonna blow up, throw up, blow dust
Ligaments rust, no trust, nonplus
A fraud and I ask god
Please, come back to me, attack me
These parts creak, rip them off
Rubber plate skin on my face, tear it off
Look into my glazed glass eyes and see
Through my metal skeleton beneath
Through the chattering of my teeth
How you ravished and destroyed me
i've been tossed aside by the one who meant to me the most
how things change
people don't remain
it takes your name
and the same story grows old
in questions and answers
why was I forsaken
where were you mistaken
when It was all taken
my heart was broken beyond
any mechanical healing
you could have saved me
for someone else.
I watch you play shell chess
the soft rabbit
of your face
the game of cups and *****
the decoy ducks
you set to float
outside the blind
of concerned cool
to camouflage your naked form
your fascination flexed
and etched politely
in the glass
between your magic
the mechanical gypsy
in a booth
coming to life
of care and foretelling
in my chest
I suppose it is love
Before spring, near Grimsby, ditches run clean like trout streams,
Our vines are gray. They will be pink next, like flushed, excited skin.
In March there is the flatness that is a big part of trouble.
Anthony's sisters are helping him scrub his apartment.
He was sick all winter. They raise his laughter like neighbours raise a burned out barn.
He had made a good start. The therapy.
He says now, "I wasn't so much sick as sad all the time."
The pills ended the depression. You can wish that life was never mechanical.
Smell of hot vinegar in the coffee-maker, smells of pine oil and beer.
Brock University jackets, damp curly hair, his sisters
Wiping their hands on sweatshirts, the open window,
His bedroom. Anthony clears books from the sills and cleans and shines the windows.
There are wicker baskets for their picnic and for his laundry.
I always wanted to know, what is consecration?
(Here is a scrap of his poetry:
"... ******* the colour of a driftwood campfire.")
His sisters laugh to think of a girl in the apartment.
The ***** clothes are gone. He's got clean denims and hiking boots.
Laughter, beer and young music,
Bread and stew and pickles and heavy brown two liter bottles of beer
On the white wooden kitchen table where he hopes to write.
His father's pickup truck is in the yard, its bed full of garbage.
With cleaning any good thing can happen. The sisters feel it too.
I didn't know what consecration meant. They joked
That he could have a girl up there when they were done.
Paul Anthony Hutchinson
Wrenches clanging, knuckles banging
A drop of blood
A new part here, and old part… there
A hotrod had been built!
A patchwork, mechanical, quilt
I drove past the banner that said “Welcome Race Fans”
Took a new route, behind the grandstands
And through my chipped window, I thought I could see
Some of the racers were laughing at me
I guess chalky grey primer is not to their taste
But I put my bucks mister in the right place
I chugged-popped past cars that dealers had sold
Swung into a spot, next to something old
Emerging with interest from under his hood
My neighbor said two words, he said “sounds good”
The voice on the loudspeaker tells us we’re up
Pre-staged, staged, then given the green
The line becomes blurred between man and machine
Bones become linkage
Time distorts ….
Color disappears …
Noise --- becomes music
Speed --- satisfaction
When I look into the moon I see the only dependent part of me that still exists. Its as if the silence in her vocal cords spoke words of solitude. I gave her the only bio mechanical part of me that mattered.
The gears in my chest keep turning like clock work.
I count seconds into minutes and minutes into hours and hours into days. I keep thinking time is standing still while im still standing still.
I'm waiting, waiting on patience and as unjustified as it sounds I'm impatient. Dreams are just your natural thoughts heavily sedated, a sub-conscious reality based off the feelings we cant display them.
I don't consider myself a writer, I see the constant flow of words and as a kid it left me inspired. I'm more of the sub concious reality type. I drink coffee and outside of that I really don't have a life.
For me writing is self exspression without being judged by others.
I opinionate my feelings and organize them in ink. The papper is my empty canvas, my thoughts are my judgment, and the pen is the deliverer.
Sometimes writing is the only thing that can stitch my wounds, like the words curved inside my brain penetrating like the needlesof a tattoo. I wonder what will become me, in what paradox will I redeem the sum of me?
I just hope this bio mechanical heart ticks away. I hope people continue to be people with different mindsets and open steeples. I want love to be found and dreams to be created.
Me spilling out my brain in thirty minuets.
Flaking lead, spit on green,
walls formed the small leaned
known as “Bulkling Beer”
(No pub at the end).
Migrant driven cars zoomed, rippled the window cage, but never stopped.
It dripped with desolate machine roars
and those were the customers.
The poor shop keeper, once in a while, slid in her knitted socks to the mechanical fiend and grabbed a gawkily warm ice cream cone
mechanical wonders are they!
the greatness of ever-changing plains
withered weathering willows which wallow in the wake of winds,
shriveling, sniffling, cynical twins.
solaris, the fantastical bringer of light!
oh how we lift our faces in your fruit-bearing gaze.
our thanks for extinguishing the inky blight, you have given us sight.
we miserable, entangled creatures in locks and chains,
at the mercy of the return of your fiery blaze.
we rely on Pandora’s final curiosity
and during times of ultimate crisis, we wish for you
and pray for catharsis.
but your sister…
luna, you wretched being, wrecker of sanity!
oh how you unravel the psyche, fibrous ends,
intertwining tapestries meticulously woven yet disassembled so quickly.
we are aghast at the horrors with which you plague us.
each stare through the mirror, reversed pools of vanity
freckles of light fall from their places
on weary onlookers’ shadowy faces
as they melt in the hysterics of your obscure domain.
finally a farewell, an intonation of speech:
discombobulated words, addressed to each;
for one sister revitalizes that which the other hath slain.
How many marbles can you fit into a bowl until you say you can't count them?
I do not want events layered upon events.
Birthdays toppling over birthdays:
a layer cake of responsibilities that aren't 'responsibilities'.
That do not count.
That cannot be measured or described as taxing or numerous.
I am outnumbered by numberless nonsense.
I am outweighed by weightless wafting pleasantries;
and life-sustaining things;
that bowl me over.
My womb is a desert called Death Valley and you wish to comb it for antique glass bottles.
I care not.
I cannot partake in any more suggestions of what I might do with my 'free time'.
But you're not feeling the tingling sensation in your gut every time you wake up and the lights don't turn on.
The wheels don't work.
The mechanical arms don't move like they are supposed to.
Like the parts of you you're supposed to have on automatic have just given up the ghost and abandoned you.
You're alone and miserable and none of it rings any bells.
None of it gives out any signs.
None of it counts.
I'm crying because the milk spilled and there isn't any milk left anywhere in the world.
We're just the land of Honey now.