I’m not sure where this is going, or at what speed… (revisited)

The grey sky and sea are one today.

The only discernible difference,

the texture of the latter.

The encumbrance of the matter

in mind’s funnel

distracts and disturbs.

Protracts and perturbs

still the distilling,

the stone at my neck

is blunt from the milling.

I ponder this song about addiction.

Another one I’m addicted to.

The frictionless sky

and the turbulent sea,

I sway between

the knowing way you look at me

oh mind’s eye,

and the mystery of unease,

the sky gets me there so soon

compared to the past,

on the sea,

in a tempested moon.

(photo credit: my brother)

(How perfect you are, o purveyor of artist’s soundless voice
to express my utter bewilderment at humans’ flailing choice-
s…)

grey metal hammer
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

No, you are not a divinely appointed player

to use and discard “toys” as you see fit

the creative souls in cyber land

to pluck as you cry, “I quit”

while winking at another

fingers crossed behind your back

be creative with your score card –

notches? or marks scrawled in black?

 

O precious souls so broken,

your self worth is left in tatters

I know you crave deep healing

but this is not what matters –

 

to be “chosen” by a phantom

when your worth is beyond their sight

you matter just in being,

their attention – darkest night.

 

Take the hands of those who care now

the lifelines that they offer

protecting pride is useless

when it’s safety that they proffer.

 

Humans, look what we do

when we confuse the tools we need

 

to really see each other…

 

 

skein

And while she was

clawing out

the sub conscious ponderings

on definition a, b or c

of her defeated-ness,

she saw their labyrinthine thread

had finally severed.

 

Her heart stilled,

begging for calibration,

a gentle reworking –

the intricate cut-outs of their pain

into simple shapes.

 

(this beautiful song, and video of estranged brothers reunited)

it’s been so many years, mr anderson. where are we again?

A friend sent this article to me this morning:

Elon Musk’s chilling Artficial Intelligence warning

(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…

title? but I’m trying to restrain myself

Life, its cruise, untils and snooze and streams of semi-consciousness,
time and ruse and bills and flus and beams of demi-righteousness,

cracks and crevices,
furtive nemesis,
falling in
deceitful fetishes,

the current, it fools
in ego pools

and just how many tsunamis can fit in here,
exactly?

I’ll be over here with my tea,
retracting
ly

 

 

im sorry
Remember this? I mean the meme. I mean, I hope you didn’t drive your truck into a tree…

 

 

mercy

*Trigger warning: there’s a picture of a clown in this post

 

 

clown

I have started cleaning house.
I’m going to be brutal. (No, really…)

Then two days ago I found this.
It belonged to my twin brother.
Why I have it, I cannot answer.
(Mostly due to temporary paralysis, and now I just can’t remember).

But it is,
truly,
the stuff of nightmares.
(And italicized, centralised, poetic importance.)

And I swear, I heard some synapses burn out when I saw it. And others that absolutely refused to be created…

(Also, if you can, take a moment to listen to this…
oh my…)

it begs a poem, doesn’t it?

pin cushion (2)

I was recently at my parents’. 
And I saw this-

a small pin cushion I had made for my mother when I was in high school, when I first learnt some cross stitching.

I can’t believe my mother is now eighty years old, and she is still using it!

Her sense of humour well and truly intact, as that spear of a needle in its right ear, was, initially, right in the middle of her forehead (that innocent bunny’s, not my mother’s).

It is funny about memory, because I had completely forgotten about it, of course, but as soon as I saw it, I remembered how upset I was that I had made a stitching mistake on its left ear. And I had somehow missed a couple of stitches on the other ear.  My sweet mother didn’t want me to fix it, but I remember how utterly crushed I was.

Yesterday I watched a video on a science site about intelligence.
Behold a short conversation I had with my husband this morning:

Me: I watched a video yesterday…blah blah…and it turns out I could be a perfectionist.
Husband: slowly closing refrigerator door…
come to think of it, I can’t describe, accurately, the look on his face…

a breath

the ache in the space

underneath notes of healing

before their gentle fall

onto lifetimes

of history’s crawl

 

sounds of heaven

drilling holes

in coffin ceiling…

 

 

our complex, war torn world. such a controversial event. such a lovely moment…

get back, cavepeople

the hollowing out –

those sneaky,

serrated lies,

the one sided skies

raining entitled cries

of urgency falling

on friends’ patient ears

your _____ ego turned

on a lathe made of tears?/fears?/arrears? what is it today?

get back in your cave

so illumined by you

poor me in the dark

my ‘old fashioned’ world view

of love and respect

so twisted and skewed

by humanity’s addiction

to $%$@ing  up any ideology for its own disgusting selfish power plays

wait, you’ve got me so sad

I messed up the meter…

but I’ll try really hard

to fit in something like peter

 

as in,

out.

mind eisegesis

I so admire your

attention span, I wish it

came in a spray can

 

Old photos 1113
image shamelessly stolen from somewhere a long time ago

Dismember the 5th, 1971

flow and ebb

lyrics’ webb

unseen scales

empty trails

of light unburst

municipal thirst

for meaningful muse

the clowns left clues

 

the wrong grave’s exhumed

 

lazy thinking

drowning/drinking

I’m not down for this up

inflatable cup

no thanks.

 

You can’t hear

what I’m not saying

unplug your ears

of all your preying

then light the fuse

follow the clues

or not.

 

Short sentences

are my drop,

 

they’re not wafting

to your heights…

 

22384116_1552242774840905_2528714517370755586_o

 

¬

Inspired by one of my favourite, satirical sites, Scarfolk Council, from their Facebook page, where every Friday is Friday the 13th.

This was, clearly, a very uncharacteristic (cough) stream of thought…but I had been in the sun for a bit…

with…

outstretched heart

I catch the evening as it floats in,

on peppered bird song

and the undulating breeze, salted-

 

these tiny sepulchres

vibrating with lament,

 

precious, sacrosanct lyrics of being

funeralled forever

in creation’s sighs

 

 

fraud

He nodded. With his eyes. Cloudy with the beers they hadn’t shared yet. And she heard it all through the phone.
She hated letting him down again.

The walking out of the ocean. She, wearing the heaviness like a medal. Then she hit the no resistance of the air.
And she flew.

Until that last wave hit.
Filled with shells and rocks, or maybe the debris of shells and rocks. And the clawing of it inside-outed her.

Lying in the sand of her authenticity, she’s exfoliated down to she’s not sure what happened. But the ocean took that medal back.

Or maybe, she gave it back.

 

He wished she knew.
Those clouds burst, and ran down his cheeks.