harps in the desert.
She bled the ache
for unplayed notes
on the horizon.
She tremored between here and there,
filled with a terrible,
that she was learning to play.
"Can we just lie here for a moment? She knows what to do and it's so much easier to make out the words if you press your ear against the stone." He hated this place. But she promised it would be the last time. And it had started to snow. It would hopefully slow the others down. They needed to leave. He was too scared to look at his watch and now he was struck by how beautiful she looked in this light. That pink light, reflecting from the tears frozen on her face. He pulled her gently up from her mother's grave.
Lyrics: mother they are coming again they come to shoot what we already lost mother they are coming again our silver covered by their rust father they are coming again they come to jail the things that i have seen father they are coming again burning minds to keep the ruin clean no one is around „little girl there’s safer ground follow the sea and you will find that place little girl there’s safer ground come take your years and put them in their hands“
I’m sorry, I can’t read
your long soliloquy
And I know this wants to rhyme
But it shouldn’t.
Because now my mind is
going through the racks
of the vintage store I loved, years ago.
Sparkly and kitsch
eclipsed by the pitch
black of memories in coat pockets
and the spark in eye sockets
as they held my joyous orbs
(It took time and care
to find the gems there.)
There are many ‘clever’ souls
refining our fright,
our ear muffs on tight
as we step back in night
with our swords drawn.
But in this tiny blog space
there can be only one
tribe, that is.
If any at all.
And in case you were wondering,
it’s the human one.
I wish Tootsies still existed.
The craftsmanship was something to behold, and enjoy, and get lost in
(of varied conversations, I mean.
The clothes were rather beautiful, too).
She didn't say anything. Why wasn't she saying anything? But she had. She just couldn't hear her. She had always heard her through her heart, and now it was frozen to her cheeks. He lifted her up as her chest was caving in. He sang instead. The words she had taught him when they met, years before. The ones she had heard from her mother's friend. Before they never saw him again. "Little girl, there's safer ground..." That ground. Rising up out of the sea of him.
Rushing to the coat check, she was trying hard not to obsess over him not believing something she had said in the car. He had said it was absurd.
It was making the skin on her arm itch.
Irony did that. Well, in particular contexts. She wasn’t sure what this was.
She had felt so warm while they were driving and had wondered if she were overdressed. But then, he was the one who was filling the car with decorated axioms, making sure to remind her how insightful he was. She had cringed wearily, then chuckled at the awful jokes forming in her mind – she started thinking she didn’t need her wisdom teeth when she digested his words, only her incisors. She could try to be environmentally friendly, she supposed, and recycle all of this packaging, but it wasn’t even pretty.
And now he appeared with two effervescent glasses, as her arm started to bleed.
She was allergic to champagne, she had told him in the car
Her breath pliable, she crouched down in that corner, the one that didn’t fit like a glove.
Her movements were whispers, soft and borrowed from someone she couldn’t remember, but they had told her to use them in times such as these. The movements abandoned her though, as she started crying the music her mother used to sing to her.
A friend sent this article to me this morning:
(Edit, the video on there has since been removed).
Very interesting to say the least. I think it is a bit of a must read/watch. Also because ignorant me would love the input of anyone who knows a lot more about this than I do. On the video: “facebook recently shut down chat bots after they started speaking their own language”. What does that even mean?
And no, I don’t plan on getting a self driving car any time soon. I just bought a second hand car that’s manual for crying out loud. It’s been a long time, and gosh darn it if I don’t love the heck out of it. Manual cars are super fun. And as my elderly friend in Colorado has always said, “I like to drive my cars, not have them drive me”. If she only knew where that was really heading…
Steve truly makes me laugh, and cry, and come to the edge of many things. Or something. I’m not sure. But it’s amazing.
Microscopic particles of time
rain upon our lives.
Paper promises grow brittle,
mapped forgiveness folds, unfolds,
frays and tears along the creases.
Our memories refract through prisms
until the brightest day is lost
in anesthetic runes.
I heard a motor revving in the carport,
and from my gate,
I watched my Kia Starfish drive away,
with the spindly legged carport
View original post 301 more words
it’s funny isn’t it
the way we nod with our eyes
but disagree with the size
of an unspoken epiphany
and all the snips and the clips of we
trying to gather themselves up
to be examined
in the light bulb moment
that might change on the morrow
the nuances of sorrow
and the other venn diagrams
we find impossible to share
as we try to bear
the broken glass of the light bulb
in our hands