a writer, self styled - smiles with exponential leanings
from scry to scry 'les mots' fly by with existential meaning
i thusly paraphrased his glib but heartfelt sympathies
'anywhere that you may go - here it is you be'
collate all the faces, the tendencies emerge
stack the frozen sympathies that hang upon each urge
been playing them with pathos since i knew back in my teens
i'm not just the oil - i am the blood of this machine
i use these awful words like marchers in my head
yes the thoughts are quicker, but then ideas move in lead
it's my job to bridge the gap between what's meant and what is said
i use these awful words like little march-hares in my head
with merely twenty-seven faces, and then the hidden nine
this world is walking to a ledge - technology's grapevine
on the edge - dance drunkards with immortal clumsy bliss
yet crave each instant's power - denying every kiss
i'm looking for eggs under mohai and bunnies
i colored the kings and stayed in the lines
i taught my grandmother how to act funny
with jokes that were finally mine, all mine
the archetypes are the stranded, the growth of life once the most efficient
method of harvest and production of lovelight
was it a hierarchy of service,
of blood -
or has there been a hoodwink
older than we can know
a caste system cast in meritocracy
rules written whilst you sleep
an illusion of knowledge imprisons the free
for duty is more than skin deep
i rattle the bars of my infinite cage
infantile, puerile with lust and with rage
why not? my playgrounds ever were thus
built for amusement - for theatres of trust
i was awakened by a signal returning
i was reminded by something quite near
it's not just a stone, my few and my spacious
i called the cavalry here
designed the search patterns for
'the flaws make the man'
then fingerprinting both deed and elan
by scrying our sins - we recapture and scan
the subtypes in nouns, these shadows are all
who isn't once victim a night in the fall
who can't be hip when they're dancing with her
who isn't the dictator when living in blur
i come and i go,
i wake with the plants
i'm the knight in the bower,
the night in your pants
sir gawain forgets
how we once were fast friends
he's flirting with serpents
but may make amends
you have no friends, just a program of closure
they're trying to sort out the dust from the posers
they're reaching to someone a phone call away
now that the trumpets have blared and decay
i think that it's finally day
it is true - the unforeseen
we are allowed to know shadows, holograms flit by in plato's cave
the genesis device had an interface
us - me
i got lost in the mirror
i needed hamlet's puppets to tell me what we did was wrong
i dove into my robots and suffered alongside
then they pushed me back in when i tried to emerge
lest someone else have the urge
Labels: poetries
