It’s Weirdly Quiet

When it’s quiet
I think I’m deaf or dead
But—
How do I tell?

So, I say (quiet)
Hey—
Anybody out there?

Sometimes
The cat comes (quiet)
But all remains—
Quiet

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Quiet out there

 

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Wait, That’s Not Even a Poem

In my past life
When I dropped myself on the bed
Overworked, exhausted & sleep-deprived
After studying English poetry all night
There were snippets of rhymed lines
Waging a war of verses in my mind

Warning me

I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep
Do not go gentle into that good night
Rage, rage against the dying of the light

What a heap of shit
How did I think
Any of that matters

It doesn’t pay the bills

So, flashforward to now
When I drop myself on the bed
Still overworked, exhausted & sleep-deprived
After translating a company website all night
There’s a war of visions going on in my head

A clash of clichés making me wish for brain death
I laugh at the line The extrusion line strikes back
Though there’s nothing funny about that
It’s pathetic, really, just like me

I still don’t pay the bills

But, at least, I’m not buying this shit
Maybe I’m brain-dead already
As I wish
That would be—a happy ending
I think

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Not going gentle into that night

Staring into That Good Night

So it’s night and I go to smoke
Outside
And see—so many fucking stars
Just hanging up there
Flickering like crazy

(Maybe
Some of them are planes)
Anyway
Here’s the epiphany:
I feel existential fear
Because I’m so tiny

So tiny
I can’t see but a microscopic bit
The whole of it I can’t see
Because of these spiky things
Of roofs
Thrusting upwards into the sky
(Not going gentle into that good
night)

They’re cutting out a miniature piece
For me to see
While the whole of the universe
Is laughing at me
Bastard

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Walls Make Neighbours

There’s a wall between me
And the gritty city street
Just a wall
Of concrete or brick or shit

One and something feet maybe
Separating me
From everything not-home
Not-nice, not-warm, not even

A not too thick wall
Between me and someone
Next to me
Above me
And next door—the post office

That’s not too much
When you think of it
A teeny-tiny willy-nilly wall
Between you and all not-you
And that’s it

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Abstract concrete

Random Suggestions Poetry

I’ve been fascinated with the relatively recent feature of the WordPress Reader: the Suggestions that show at the top, just above the feed. What’s so curious about them is:

  1. I often have no idea what the suggested keywords mean. Homesteading? Sous vide? Come on, don’t swear at me! Don’t tell me what that is though, I already Googled and confirmed that I’m highly uninterested in these subjects.
  2.  The suggestions are extremely random. I would’ve thought that as all other advertising (which is what suggested content really means), the keywords would be personalised. I don’t think they are, otherwise I couldn’t have been offered Homeschooling, Politics and Toddlers, all of which I intensely don’t care about.
  3. The whole thing is so hilarious! I waste time taking the three words suggested and using them in a poem or something. Like the thing below, which incorporates my latest incongruous suggestions of Beauty, yoga and Batman.
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Beauty, yoga, batman 

Beauty is—not a thing
But if it were
   real

It would be
   me
With my arms up
   in a flying V
In the position
   of a tree

Doing yoga
Flying—
Like a fucking
Batman

Zombies’ Night Out

People swarm and swell
And form a dumb mass
Of bodies to fill the train

Their vital signs are sound
Except—they are dead
And there are too many of them
In this hell hole of a train

Don’t they have somewhere else
To be—or un-be—these undead?

Like, I don’t know—
Home, for instance?

I’m open to
Tolerate
Respect
Embrace
And all this crap

It’s just that
I’d rather for zombies
To have their night out
In elsewhere.

Intimacy with Strangers

Elbow to elbow | Thigh to thigh
The guy on a packed bus | Sitting next to me
No | On top of me

He’s in my personal space | I’m in his
Hardly humans, more pigs | In slaughterhouse no. five

Thrown together by chance | Forced to intimacy
With strangers | We are

He’s on the phone | So am I
He doesn’t know | I’m watching
With a keen eye | and writing about
Him and me being here | now

So I Got These Ikea Glasses…

Design IKEA
Made in CHINA
What the f*ck?

Well *shrug*
Glass is glass
You drop it
.
It breaks
.
.
Into millions
Of shards . . .

Except, I guess
In CHINA
There’re no unions

Sorry about the Silence

I haven’t been around for a while. (Stating the obvious.) I’ve been busy busting my ass working like my life depended on it (it sort of does). It’s not that I have a history of overwork and psych ward incarceration (I do). So, to make up for it, I’ve penned a terrible pseudo-poem.

I’ve been quiet
Catatonic
Vegetative
Pathetic
Not keen on
—anything

I’m not good
But better now
Thank you

 

An Anti-nursery Rhyme

Sleep is when

You’re awake, but unaware

Or comatose, and oblivious

Or dead, not a care

Sleep takes 

The pains

Out of all things

Who’d want to be up

Not me

Let us sleep

No flowers

By request