Everything feels supersized when highly meaningful,
when the sounds are resonating: orchestral.
When all we want to do is be on pause and to duplicate;
control our flickering flame;
make it dance continuously, on repeat, to keep a much needed mind-set.
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).
Behind lowering eyelids;
two dissolving slugs
and two ravenous,
sucking holes, burning,
inviting my skull to push through,
like two useless old bulbs
laying on clumpy, clay soil.
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.
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!
The green heart; a sickened muscle,
burned putrid from a passive mind,
because the owner thinks they could be nicer,
when deeper in thought; they’re knowingly unkind.
In the descending fog, someone’s getting lost. Late night tales are telling, Hell-o-ween, I said! How’s my spelling?
It’s the trick and no treat, that slow knock on the door, from no-one. Those masked, silent at your gate, come on now kids, pack it in! It’s getting late!
Do they celebrate death and worms? Tell me what you heard, what you saw? Now tell me again, ok, prove it to me, I want the gory details, do you see!
Because, everybody in the house might scream! And something in the house might go arrrrgh! One by one in the house they will go!?! Hello? Anyone left?
We love the scare; we love the violence, for it’s a full moon tonight, how nice – (silence).
I awake from sensitive sleep. I’m out of tune to the bed-sheet; like magnet
against a magnet, not yet fully formed to be part of this new day.
My right hand is a cutout, a hole; in shape of a hand on the edge of
substance.
I attempt to grab for my duvet, but my hand sinks through it; as if softer.
Then, like warm sands engulfing cold, ancestral rock, my hand slowly returns to
me, as I watch it closely re-generate; appreciation of owner-ship is fulfilled,
and it proceeds to move by my own accord; to turn off the irritating alarm!
Every morning, I see a more vivid scene of what’s exactly outside my
window. Somehow projected, it stains itself seamlessly onto the glass,
precisely before I pull the cord; to open my bedroom blinds. The artist is unknown, an
expert in realism, it’s nice, but I really wish they’d move on.
I Eat Let.ers 