This strange country
That is existent in
An etherlike net
Of interconnected computers
Many fibers intertwine
Real or simulated
Binding us together
...
Falsely accused!
You are not dying!
We are clay
and time molds us
No matter who you were
Be shaped yet
To more beautiful things
It's as close
As vapor
Clinging in the air
There
The place that
Still has art
All your beautiful details
The smallest seed
Of human innocence
Don't give in
Don't tell me
That
The part of you
That touches infinity
Is gone
That
All your sensitivity
Is Dulled
You can't fool me
Because hurt breeds
A longing in us
That can only be fed
By reaching out
Gently
I beg you
Speak to me in poetry
It's the language
That the void can hear
And the only thing
It can't take
Is being told what to do
The limp cocks quiver
in tandem with the jealous jowels
Of proud podium policymakers
Who grub each other
Over and over
In their Shiny question hall
Who wants the asetic tall
Windmills of the new world
dotting lake George
Filling our machines
With the sun's wind-movement
Miracle of modernity,
When we could have something
As pretty and fragrant
As a coal mine
Instead?
Ask not for whom the Pell tolls
This island's highest speaker to
The greatest corporate conglomerate
Of things invisible or incredible
Has now fallen brass bare
Pederastic scummery
Your millstone is here
- Just like the carpenter said -
But, in this single block
Do we see cracks
Appear elsewhere?
Does the wall hold strong yet
Or is the curtain
Across the sea
Really about to tear?
Bakery?
Early morning dripping cool silence
How different it is from
Day Road busy with laughter
Hooting
Car doors slamming
Caw crowd calling
Bird voices speaking
Coins jingling
Slang of adults children mingling
Whistle of street warden armed
With fulsome ego and sign
But Now silent solitude
Dawn unbroken
Blue stars burn simple distant
Chill pavement unadorned
Greets great noise of
Groaning old man truck
Sighs it's hydraulics let down delivery
And bread breaking softly steam rising from
Fresh loaf scent
Sneak around corners gentle waft to meet the nose
Of sleepless myself
Tempting Bookstore
with shut fast door
Coffee yet to grind
Beggerous shapes stumble and clink gently
And the faithful dumpster waits for divers
I like lyneham
At night
And when the night is nearly over
Then it is at its best
There could be tiny people on the top of my head, living a simple, rustic life, subsisting on the small, many legged animals that they hunt with spears through the vast jungle of hairs.
There probably isn't.
There could be a naming master, who sits in an office building, writing things down on pieces of paper, and sending them to people in authority, explaining what they should call new things. Things like kankles, or squidoids, or flummery.
There probably isn't.
There could be a small pink teapot balanced carefully on top of a very high mountain, that when struck with a spoon, lets out a reverberating ring that makes birds who hear it oddly peckish.
There probably isn't.
There could be a hairless shurgle at the bottom of every well, that refuses to interact with humans in any way, but that bares us no ill feeling.
There probably isn't.
There could be a person reading this that has realized how to make time travel possible, but doesn't really feel like sharing.
There probably isn't.
There could be a point to all this.
