placed a voice
where there was no space
–
but
it’s what they seem to do
–
the sound
a third as weighty as the rest
–
though no less worthy
–
but
weighty was the counter
–
and being less weighty
–
the voice
was counted out.
–
–
no matter.
–
only verse unsung.
it is always there
though not always within vision
of course
for only sparkling minds
see the sparkles in their skies
but sparkling once alight
and tools within our grasp
and all other elements
being right
without brokenness
or shadows
without question-marks
or slow-downs
and in shameless consort
we say: glow
and glow it does at our command
and from our fingers rise
roaming scents of pure fragrance
made tangible
and true.
picked up
an old coat
dipped
hands in pockets
picked up
a used ticket
dipped
hands in pockets
picked up
unstamped letters
dipped
hands in pockets
picked up
useless habits
dipped
hands in pockets
picked up
restless dreams
dipped
hands in pockets
(it’s just another day)
brain
dots
lit
up
No stars
no sun
no blue
just sky.
And far above me
falling fast away
the ground.
and readily
they burst
in extra-earthlike fires of vivid colour
just
a shift in perception
just some grainy glass away
Waterdrops would waddle down the hillside every morning, following the path laid down by his ancestors in many years gone by. Each day, he descended—drawn by habit, by the patterns sewn into his life, with no qualms, no questions to be pondered—and each evening, he returned. It did not occur to Waterdrops to consider the question that occurs to you and I—why?—and so, daily, he wandered up and down the hill, was warmed beneath the sun, and gently, surely, with no hopes nor fears to fill, lived out his quiet life.
Where we find meaning, it’s deep within ourselves. Not out there—not on the internet. Not in the images of others, other lives, not in the lies—we eat them up, rapacious, with our eyes, until they eat our hearts. We swallow bites of presentation, of fabrication, and digest. We perceive, to occupy our minds. But beneath perception lies the truth inside—unoccupied, we find it in our dreams. The truth is there in music, played on heart-strings, composed upon our skins. The truth is there in tears brought forth by melodies divine, by poetry, by the pangs of night’s desire. These are the essences of meaning that lie beneath our love. Truth is not in shallowness and shortness, short attention spans, short thought. Not in the photos flashing on our phones, swiped and swept aside. The truth is there in notes and notions that run up and down our spines, shiver there, linger there, and infiltrate our souls. I cannot tell you what is truth—but I tell you, it is there.
And remember—this is what matters. Words. What matters is not their matter but that they matter still. Still, quiet perfection in words. Balance, and structure, not straight-laced, but lucid and dreaming all at once.
She smiled on one side of her face, and flashed pity with the other. “I know. But the thing is—the other monkeys don’t give a shit. They have their own shit to worry about. Maybe literally. They’re monkeys. I know it’s infuriating that they don’t care but they don’t and, honey, they’re too stupid to care. They’re monkeys. Why eat your heart out over something you can’t change? Evolution is a slow-moving thing. To make these monkeys men would take a hell of a lot mothering. Is that going to be your purpose? God! Why bother? Just watch them swing from branch to branch—it’s a day out at the zoo—and get out of the way when the shit-flinging starts.”
Magical: Day One 