It Went Like This

Charles always gave us advice in plenty. His mouthwords would at times ring through the long mansionesque corridors. This peculiar resonance feature of our home-abouts was particularly potent during summery days of jasmine stink and verge trimming orgies. We never knew why it was so.

Rapid Fire

Mad Max Melancholia
By the dry river bed, curling serpent-like, a makeshift shack sways in the Fat Man-breeze. You can almost hear the rasping Geiger waltz. And all dances to the rhythm - bushes, yellow grass, rocks and stones - all of it. And the remains of our time lingers. Skyscraper skeletons looming in the distance, plastic and metal trinkets littering Eden, drawn into fantastic disarray by the wind. The mighty wind called forth at the dawn of Gods. Its the refreshing wind of change. A change, making Gods cower in makeshift shacks. Cower, at the sight of their own hand.


I know, it borders cliche. But what can one do when facing the wear and tear of language's fabric and essence. Not that there is any essence (I would say), only wear and tear. Which brings us to number two in today's pulverization of personal integrity, since loss of language constantly seem to derail every pursuit of poetic diligence.


Bushwhacked no. 5
There is no jazz in this here sky!
No swinging moves or asking why,
no honky tonk grooves or outcry
for a somersaulting flyby.

There is no 'jiggy', funky feel
no freedom laughter or appeal
for a clearer bluer sky ideal
without this black Achilles' heel.

So here is now my one demand:
Begone with all this blinding sand,
let's fly away to bebop land,
and no more follow their command.

___________________________

Ticktock, ticktock.
Time is short, time is fast,
if you wait you will be last.