Author’s Note: As you all know, I’m in the business of making things up. However, real life can be just as extraordinary. Here is my latest conversation with a WordPress friend regarding her blog post and its redistribution. I use an app called Buffer. The conversation went as follows.
My head spins with what it wants.
What does it want?
Eyes haze over unable to focus on unmatched trainers;
laces tied together in a triple knot.
A gloom transpires, a dizzying state of what should and what could;
I can no longer look down so stare up into the nothingness instead.
Crows line the street heads lowered like saddened old men.
They watch me stagger, lose my swagger, forget how to cry;
gargoyles of this modern utopia, they despise me.
I don’t want to look.
Please, don’t make me look!
The fogged nothingness disperses to another turgid somethingness.
A mellow sun rages an insipid war with an equally lethargic moon:
Is this night or day? I hear me cry.
The crows nod, but I don’t know at what.
A key rattles in a pocket of a coat that might be mine;
it feels heavy in my blood-streaked hands, slippy like grease,
dirty proof of the person I have not wanted to become.
So this is it I think, this is the life parentage bequeathed me.
Good. I’d rather fight than fall and I’m already through the door so the last laughs on me;
a crow passes me dinner: cooked crow.
The world outside the windows falls away, sheets tumbling
and I scream, for the game has sucked me in again.
I close my eyes, but they were already shut:
pick up a pen and write it out.
“You’re the most beautiful, sweet-smelling rose I’ve ever seen. It’d be a travesty not to come out and say it. You’re an angel, that’s what you are.”
“I think it’s safe to say you’ve not given this man enough anaesthetic.”
“Sorry, Doctor, I’ll fetch a bigger hammer.”
“So, you’re here for a sight test?”
“Ah, hearing test?”
“Who said that?”
“Double cheeseburger please.”
“This is an opticians, sir.”
“I thought it was a florists?”
“You’d smell the roses.”
“Ah, now I see, you’re totally senseless?”
“Not at these prices I’m not.”
Without memory, she’d lived a dream.
Two horned unicorn just went moo!
Catapulted into a hazel-eyed vision,
Thrust into something:
What a something!
Thoughts gathered in red wine clouds.
Everything’s a little bit off.
Everything’s a little bit weird.
The car door won’t open and I can’t get out,
Won’t get out,
Because I’m trapped in with you.
The world’s gone to hell
And I’m winding up the windows.
I’m stumbling, bumbling
Tripping on words
A horse with a bridle
A man full of nerves
I’m trying to tell you
What my tongue won’t allow
I’m struggling to smile
What a fool, holy cow
If only I could say
What I’m wanting to speak
Instead of confusion
A bird with no beak
But if I stop and compose
Look way down below
Then at last I may say
A simple hello