Something like a memory of movement
Follows writing in the shadows that,
Emerging in the full-mooned glow,
Begin to show fallacial faces
Haunting those solitary spaces
And which, imagining the
Live only in the dark, unnatural luminescence
Of a lunar Lieu.
Have you ever heard a scream
From that place between
Waking and sleeping?
The thunderous silence of a midnight dirge
To mourn the loss of
What you never had.
It’s the despair of two star-crossed lovers
Lying alone together, their world ill prepared
For love that never
It’s the godless and unholy roar
Of Heorot’s pain:
A raw and tender obscenity screamed in search of
Heroes from a foreign shore.
It’s the rumble of this fragile earth
Of fire and stone,
There is no balm in Gilead
To soothe creation’s groan.
And no amount of drink
Can ever stop the sound,
And no endless reel of daytime television
Will ever fully drown
As I examine the shark which is a balloon in the state of being so inflated as to not be, I am ambushed by absurdity. Somehwere geographically below it is a photograph of what appears to be intended to be understood as a monochromatic and incomplete photographer. Photographs are strange.
I stopped being interested in taking photographs when I realized that they don’t really exist; by which I mean that their existence is a negation of the reality which I pretend that they pretend to.
This is me by the Eiffel Tower,
And here again in Rome;
These are my friends: Sam and Jim;
This is at my home.
Your life condensed into a show
Of snaps of what I’ve seen.
I can’t remember what lay to
The right of that one scene.
I love my photo album,
It reminds me of the time
You might one day remember when
My life was never mine.
I think that the human is getting bored of typing on your keyboard, which is a relief because I’m getting bored of reading about something which means nothing at all to the writer.