ebullient decay
philosophise me
unhelix my mind
and then chastise me
rhyme my poses
retime my proses
snap my beak
rethorn the roses
alphabetize me
file my shadows
then ostracise me
crime my creases
frieze my freezes
face me in to
comb with tweezers
must be those klutzy shoes…
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…)
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…
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)
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…
passing around
these truths like hot potatoes
coming aground
on sooths from tenured sayers,
this chartered territory
is predictable and free not free
let’s try this other fork
in the road, forest, desert, Wiggles song, social media
mind map
to our lungs…
I, oh so love, that Murray is in this…
Lyrics:
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
*Trigger warning: there’s a picture of a clown in this post
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…)
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…
One single hair, (well,
not one, technically), stabbing
eyes, remorselessly!
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…
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.
I so admire your
attention span, I wish it
came in a spray can
night’s limping kernel
of quiet, stabbed psyche’s cry
drowned by deaf’ning page
painting basement walls
with your velvet words, window
distracts from staircase
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…
¬
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…
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
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.
