We can’t forget the sunglasses. If we do, we’ll be conspicuous.
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OverworkedWe set aside a time, one hour for a meeting;our search for a room hindered by our searchfor the solution.Can we set aside a dayfor creation and have a canvas we can all paint onat the same time in the same roomand order ice cream or chip-shop chipswhilst we make our master design?Then do you think we can turn our ideainto a real life innovation?Or do we continue to scavenge old buildingsfor neglected conference rooms oncebooked by occupants no longer present. Dowe panic about the problem and confirmwe are in shit before we've truly understoodthe colour, depth, and complexity of the shit?Do you think we could stick to our plans anddo what we say we will do when we do it? Wego home on time and drink gin-and-tonic ina local beer garden, enjoying the warm sun insteadof an overheated, over-exhausted office.
Machine WindWind tip-tapping againststeel pipesdesperate to attract attention, off desolate rooftops where there's no blue skiesbut the lingering pollution of yesterday's work. The wind infers longing, where they once worked, sweeping each corner in search of their presenceor past existence, a distance too farof just what happened and why now absent.Still tipping and raising the alarm, there must be someone there-a twisted gust takes one more lap of hope. no more than hope.
Walking with a ToddlerSlow he may be, plodding gentle histiny legs. Each stick is a newexploration three steps toanother. “come on” you shout as he trots overgravel laughing delighted at the crunch-crunchbeneath his feetand thereand back again. A dog bounds by, so much energy thatit sparks fear in the little trekker ashe clings to your leg, begging to be lifted.Arms wrapped around his world,he points at the sky, tells you its blue.
The Execution of Judy MonroeIn glamour, in glitter-infested Hollywoodthe movie star Judy Monroe’s almond eyes; coaled melodramatic,tilt towards the camera.She weeps.The executioner motions forward; a tall man, no guardian angel.She watches his movement; spiteful, hated as he proudly glidesto prep for the grand finale.She prays.A prayer to God with no love, each lens focused on her.Black and white replaced by orange overalls.She was found,She was judged,And Judy Monroe will be judgedUntil opulence is extinguished and her dimpled cheeks sallowand her pretty head drops. She dies.When the tall man grazes her last touch,leather grasps her wrists tight.the poison plunges and she falls before them all:behold her final bow.intense silence, release and exhale. applause.
Twenty Ten FourWe never notice.Our alarm doesn't ring, it singsPharell beating our mornings'til we remove from our snooze. Weforgot the tink-tinker orbleep-fuck-bleeperand emerge the same.The same commute to work:Heads sunk, tired eyes drunk bythumb movements. Our ears dumblocked into a Will-I-Am trance. Nota glance of the changing scenes; the only birds we see are angry.The same office echoes withtip-tip-tip-tappingof emails blaming others and smack-talking.instead of actual talking. We fall forthe hype of Skype and only Siri’svoice drones narrow answerswe accept as truth. The same playground, huddled corners;Children pick a blackberry instead of picking blackberries, for their late-nightFacebook fights. Words will always hurt see:no kids to hit with sticks and stones. Unlessthere’s an app for it.What do we do when stop?Orwell you're too latetook thirty years to demonstrate yourdoublethink and we all cling to the
The Beard of intrigueHis beard was fascinating.It was a loom, woven with intricate detail and so long it would put any wizard to shame. Each pattern in the coarse mound of hair seemed to share a secret. Perhaps they were memories- I’d heard others collect memories in such ways- etchings on their bodies, collecting objects and even journal writing. Maybe this man was his own journal.The rest of him seemed positively ordinary. He rested in his chair in a blue business suit- albeit a little outdated for fashion, but suited the character I had begun to form in my head for him. His sorrowful eyes narrowed on a frustrated brow of greying features, illuminating a sense of tiredness. Perhaps the beard in all its might was weighting down. His skin was as rough as sandpaper, blotches and scars etching his hands and face with no revelation to the puzzle of his beard.I wanted to move closer, debating whether it was rude to ask. The very notion excited me as I built up theories as to why his beard had the
Our generationcigarette smokeandalcoholthe fumesembeddingin the wallcocaine linesin bathroomstalls:our generation,we have it allmisguided teens,with dying dreams(poured down the drainby languid veins)the clinking of glassesand racing hearts,we cannot stopwhat we did startit's all an escape- a sick paradox:we're runningfrom ourselves.
.in keeping aliveyour yesterdays,you are killingyour tomorrows
On self-loveMaybe whoshe really loves,is the nameof the boyshe thinks of,while she linesher chatoyant eyeswith charcoalmaybe the nameshe really needs to think of,is her own.
You said you'd burn bridges for meI broke my bonesinto sticksand stones-let thempile fora firein the endas I burned,the only answerI yearned:was it youwho litthe match?
9:58 amI saw you smokingin front of the churchon Sunday9:58 am,and I don't knowwhether servicewas over,or yet to begina milky hazefloating into thea i r,and with eachdiaphanous puff,I saw angel wingsf l y i n gtoward the heaven aboveand I only wonderedif you hoped Godcould save you fromyour addiction,or from whateverthe reasonyou started smokingwas.
Yes, I Have a PenisYes, I Have A PenisDo not assume (if I hold the door for you),that I am making a statementabout your inabilitiesto open the door for yourself.If you hold it for me,I'll say 'thankyou'.Do not assume (if I pay for the meal),that I am underestimatingyour earning capacityas a woman.If you invite me out for a meal,you're paying.Do not assume (if I defend your rights),that I am belittlingthe attempts that you have madeto defend your rights yourself.If you defend my rights,I'll consider you human.
just,What was she?
fun factI keep my shoes near:one can never know whenit's time to go.
Rhyming in PoemsWhy do you all want to rhymeall the time?You don't need to do it,that's perfectly fine.You think it's so coolAnd it leaves poems gleaming,But it desecrates flowAnd can ruin the meaning.It's so bad to rhythm,It's like a bad dayYou wonder why you're notSleeping it away.You think it's the rootOf your writing's salvation,But we all will hate you,All parts of the nation.You think it sounds niceBut you don't even knowHow ruined the sound isHow badly it 'goes'.So the irony's over,Your poems can mend,I'll stop myself here,Before you meetYour end.
Napo 5- In the ParkWe can’t forget thesunglasses. If we do,we’ll be conspicuous.