These meridian lines are blurred by the time we see it clear
All these cigarette burns and coffee rings mark wasted minutes
And these explosive stereo revelations
blast us spun up in knots
Fishing for thought
In this cerebral sea of noise
Like fingernails on chalkboard
Scratching beneath the surface
Searing bloodshot scattered aftershock
This is written for W3
Inspired by:
I’ve been chirpin’ out
Am all scarlet blushin’
Perchin’ on me thistles
they’re mine now
Tek in the moment
Wont be long ‘fore soon
an’ i’ll be gone in a wee blur
But ya know them thistle seeds ya put up, on advice from rspb? Yea, f*** ’em
I wont be eatin’ ’em
I’ll stick t’ the source
Cuz i’m mighty wild like that
P.S do keep up the sunflower seeds.
I have been found on wet pavements
The postmans loss, a new journey for me
I have been passed from pillar to post
Without too much kerfuffle
I have held together reams of quixoitic letters
Marred by time and bothersome quarrels
An acomplice to a man and his mistress
and I have been lost and found again
I’ve been stretched too thin
And sprung back again
I have gotten bigger, slacker
I sit, flung into a drawer, awaiting mail.
Writing for W3
I came across a gentleman with an apple for a head
Stem an’ all
I thought to myself ‘what a good replacement if ever I lost my own!’
I asked the man, ‘whats it like having an apple for a head?’
He said, ‘take a bite!’
And i replied ‘I can’t I’ve just brushed my teeth and you wouldn’t taste very nice’
Then a worm popped out from his ear hole and said ‘hi’
And that was how i knew he was rotten inside
White noise space
liminal amplitude
I’ve seen in the screamin’ mouths
A quiet calm scream much too loud
A presence that stalks the afterwaves
Strings playin’ hearts
pulling them down to this snowfalled place
I’ve seen it
In brigthly lit TV speckled teeth
a blizzard left reddened
out of the mouths of babes
Out of which breezes the soarin’ spirit of violence storm
More clamour to the machine
Into which we were each torn
from our mothers breast
to become scorn
Slippin’ on me jester shoes
foldin’ meself a body to bemuse
faught the mud, got done proper good
smoked me up
like pigs in blankets
all ‘ung up, snug as a bug in a rug
said, ‘Eat me up! It’s part of me lifecycle!’
I shrugged like grub ya know like Atlas does.
Authors Note:
I wrote this in June of this year. I’m sharing it for W3.
I can’t write anything much right now, just got nothing, a complete block in my head and not for lack of trying.
Hope you don’t mind me sharing one I already wrote, that I thought might fit the bill for this weeks W3
Mr. Eons came to sit with me for tea
I confessed to him that I feel like he’s always there
Mr Eons shook his head and said, ‘Always, there is a sad melody that underpins the webs i weave’
‘I don’t really like tea’ I told him in between the tocks of the ticking clock
I turned to look Mr. Eons in his many eyes, ‘why do you never leave, always harvesting the flies in me! If i had buttetflies it would be a sign of motion. But here I sit. Here I waste away, and yet, I can see it in your eyes, it is not a waste when there is no waste to be!’
‘It is true, my friend’ started he, ‘you’re not even worthy of being waste, which is a waste you see. In your space another could be, but alas here you are, that I surely see.’
And the clock ticked, the wallpaper peeled
And his lips sipped and his legs slowly crept
And I cried and begged for breath untreacled
Mr. Eons wrapped himself around me
My teeth chattered in the dark
And my ears picked up the melody
as he dragged me into the darkest periphery
I tried to hide in a cup
foldin’ mesel’ into a spoonful
borrowing me downs from me ups
I tried to hide in a cup
It’s safe to say I looked a reet mug
I was half empty, full
I tried to hide in a cup
foldin’ mesel’ into a spoonful
This was written for W3
These things I carry
empty baggage
Having not been through enough
To feel the way I do
Yet my empty heart is heavy
and nothing fills the void
To lighten the load
And that’s what loads the smoking gun
my skeletal cage can’t bear the bones
inside my skull
I can’t contain this insipid home
with treacled webs
of shallow deeply woes
A small amount of spoilers for anyone who wishes to read the book or watch the new film. You have been warned.
I have read this before, and it’s one of those books I always remembered, so I decided to reread it. It started with me thinking that maybe I had misremembered how good it was. I wasn’t quite geling with it like I had remembered, but I persevered through the first few chapters, and I was drawn in again. It’s somehow very readable, even as it disturbs somewhat.
The Long Walk seems to be a metaphor for life, how we each fear death to varying degrees, and we hear and see other people have died, yet we have to continue with life regardless. Despite seeing and hearing of those around us who have died through the years, a lot of us spend time with the intellectual knowledge that we will one day die, yet emotionally, we often don’t quite believe it. It’s a weird cognitive dissonance I’ve observed in myself and others. This whole story seems to be an exercise in that fight inside our heads, that fear and panic at the knowledge of our death and how often to defeat that fear and panic, we bumble along and emotionally soothe ourselves.
This was readily observable in 2020 during the height of the pandemic. While people were dying, there were discussions on TV shows and YouTube videos about how the people most at risk were those with ‘underlying health issues. ‘ People would say things like, ‘I’m not too worried about Covid because I’m healthy.’ People said this a lot, and I kept thinking to myself, ‘I guess if they repeat it, they feel better about the uncertainty.’ People spoke of this with an element of pride in their supposed health status, but underneath it, as callous as it appeared, they were soothing themselves, because it could potentially be them, and deep down, I think a lot of them knew it.
Every time the new death count came on the news, people all consoled themselves that they hadn’t caught it yet, or they caught it and it felt like a common cold! Then you have the other people who got on a train from conspiracy station, anything to make their potential death a more controllable outcome. If it’s a conspiracy, then this virus isn’t real; actually, the whole thing was planned. Things are easier if everything is controllable by human hands. Even if controlled by evil humans, at least it was humans, and if evil humans had control, then good humans could regain control. If the virus isn’t real, then those invisible things that can make us feel bad, or cause chronic illness or indeed kill us, aren’t real.
I’ve had conversations before with people, talking about someone who has just died, and the person will say something like, ‘Well, he did have heart issues.’ Yeah, he may well have, but that doesn’t mean death won’t find you, too.
The character Stebbins seemed to be doing just fine, no warnings, not till the end, yet he didn’t win, did he?
Olson continued for a long time, despite appearing like the dead walking; some of the seemingly fittest walkers got their ticket not because of a physical setback, but because they went crazy.
That’s another thing life does to you: it can drive you crazy, and if it doesn’t drive you crazy, you may well have been born crazy so that you wouldn’t know the difference.
Then you had the crowd congealing into one mass face of the monster created by the Frankenstein-esque mediascape that promoted such a bloody dystopian idea, and how they felt joy and cheered on the bloody deaths.
Seems familiar. There is something in the human psyche that, when congealed together as one mass, they become monstrous entities controlled no longer by individuals but by a baser surge of bloodlust.
I enjoyed reading this book; Stephen King is a very hit-or-miss author with me. This is one of the hits.
silverbackgorillapoetry.com 