Monthly Archives: November 2015

Night and Day

The day is the same as the night,

Except at night there’s less natural light.

And so the night is the same as the day,

But the day lends itself away.

 

Then if the day is the same as the night,

The night hides the obvious from sight.

Only the moon outstays its welcome,

Hanging there as a forgotten kite.

 

Not can be said of the moon and the sun,

The moon controls the night and tides for fun.

The sun is the day and directly cannot be seen,

Improves your mood and raises self-esteem.

 

Without these forces then where would you be?

Are you a tree hugger or drawn to the sea?

Do you have a connection? Receive power from the moon?

Will you run to the sun, be a shadow by noon?

 

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Frog In Fog

Do as I do said a frog in the fog,

and he flopped into a pond.

How lucky was he,

for he couldn’t look beyond.

Do as I do said the frog in the fog,

and he leapt out to dry.

How lucky was he,

for he didn’t even try.

Do as I do said the frog in the fog,

and he swallowed a fly.

How lucky was he,

for his word is no lie.

Do as I do said the frog to a toad,

suddenly some lights; dazzled, he froze.

The toad belched, you’re in the damn road!

The frog in the fog, so it goes.

The Indestructable Toy

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Infuriatingly Indestructable, and at that point of my childhood (back In the 80’s) when a little destruction would do me fine. I was convinced that this truck was not a toy, but more — a test!

Somehow, forged with alien metals, this orange dump trucks’ durability bore an unforunate resemblance to that of a black box flight recorder (how can it endure such incomprehensible abrasion?). Maybe, just maybe, I’ve been living as a slow aeroplane ever since; having the good sense not to allow myself to crash, all the while i’m harbouring a toy (Yes, I don’t really need an object such as this in my daily life) but realistically knowing there is a possibility of engine failure (but il keep it anyway, because i dare not forget my nice, average boyhood).

As my nostalgic tendencies continue to serve me, Is this innocent truck a stark reminder of how fragile (It still has no dents) my adulthood can be, and in the future: will very likely be, if i’m ever so lucky to be so old that i can only remember the distant past (the black box is no longer black, but now, also orange in its colour).

Today, I Buried the Car

Today, I buried the car under the garden, or enterrer la voiture sous la Jardin; it makes no difference to me. As I sit on its corroded roof of raised ochre paint and brushed steel. By coincidence, I sit at sea level to distant oceans that are full of old weather and distress.

I know there is never a sea that’s forever as level as this laid lawn, and so I recall, on purpose I left the engine running. So it is that I’m repeated to fade as time delays the dream in which I sit, statuesque, waiting on my cars dented roof, for something to erase what I didn’t mean.

Then, suddenly the car drives through the soil, searching for oil. I’m destined to travel with it. With consummate ease, I’m driven forwards, for I assume that is where I face, and above an underground road, with all speediest motion of the most stubborn small hand of a basic clock, through terrain as varied as the subconscious memories of the recent dead.

My progress never slows until I discover the edge of this world dissolving like an old cake from age, churned from its constant turning. Now I’ve slipped into another world, of some sense. As I arrive, seamlessly through a subtle zipped window, I’m suddenly driving through dull traffic, so dense; with the clumsy authority of a process mounted car on set. I’m steering the wheel, it’s looser than I imagined, it’s no use, and the scenery is a little disjointed from the direction I steer in. Maybe the next world will find me before I find it! Or before I find the brakes.

The Hexagon-Shaped-Phone

Recently, I’ve been spoken to: on a hexagon-shaped-phone. The voice was more in the phone than on it. The voice told me; real soft, that if they had to call me again, just one more time, they would tell me, most vehemently, of how much I’ve fucked up!

Then, by continuously fluffing my pillows with extinct feathers; that I had done so for the last time.

The voice then whispered for dramatic effect; saying that I had left them no choice but to – And at that moment I panicked, so I cut the voice off and have been waiting by the phone ever since!