Incel

Incel

The question begs
Why perform an action
Not conducive to motion
In the direction
Of your desires

My will is sleeping
It too needs to rest
Only now occurring
Is the thought
That I’m being bluffed

It’s fatigue
When I need catharsis
Instead I change seats
Unaware of the facts
Random stochastic acts

My internal logic
Is wired backwards
Approaching chaos
Then I hear the voice
Of the ex waitress

Choosing another seat
Her words having been elsewhere
Navigating a torturous route
My senses tell me
What was that?

You want to sit with me?
You’re new here?
There is no communication
I get lost in thought
Trying to pinpoint her accent

Domestication

Domestication

You’re too cold sometimes
Blinding me to the chances
You’ll ever give my soul
The gentle, warm-handed massage
It tends to want to need

But that may not be it
Or at least not all
What if there’s suffering
Involved in finding out
Is it worth our while

You need a person
And I need a horse
You’re wild and untamed
And I seem capable
Of fulfilling that role

Speaking of such
I admit I have a whip
But not that I use it
Except perhaps on me
When I find myself asking

Those same questions again
Should I stop it here
Although more often why
Would I not resolve this
Like I do other problems

Thing is this
I lose interest
And gain lethargy
In a cycle
Time is but a mediator.

The squeeze

The squeeze

We’re in a Mexican standoff
With no one to talk us down
Glock gold fatal stranglehold
Malignant but for some

Power’s too diffuse
Words echo through space-time
Black oily reins no use
Because we despise it

Knowing nothing of them
Not a moment’s inspection
Even holding our attention
Ends in vinegary revulsion

Pro tem they form empires
Built on pyramids of data
Networks of metastatic knowledge
On an already divided world

Our monarchies moan
Our oligopolies creak
Our democrarchies putrefy
Until we fill the void

Hyperbole

Hyperbole

Travel ages the soul
Like clocks on trains
Run fast

Reaching the line’s end
Still deep in thought
Slow the mind

Wasting a journey
Is like wasting a body
Prepare for approach

Arriving unready
Is disrespectful to life
Be grateful

For the change in setting
Or the time-effort saved
By staying still.

A lost imprint

A lost imprint

For many months
Waking to the same sound
A compact disc
Loaned by a friend
A morning reveille

I ignored the future
Mistaking the fog for priority
Dragging my bones westward
Failing to account for taste
Never removing the music
From where it stimulated awakening

Meaning I returned home
Every evening
Uninterested by change
Absent stimulus inherent
Inheriting a lasting memory
That would lie latent
Dormant until last night here
When leaving neuro-somatic downtime
I established my space-time location
To be couched in terms of
A conscious doze
Decades having elapsed
Sand, fingers, gravity.

Here-now torrential doubt
As to which circuit stores this
A sensorial memory, sure
But who is serving me
Who sees the following foe
A badly drawn face
A red background

Easily found in the crowd
Yet number one is unfamiliar
Visualising a sound’s genetic code
A song I never really heard
Taunted by a comment made
In conversation with a friend
From which no action stemmed
Ephemeral like the meantime
Yet for from meaningless
Seeking not time lost
But development ungained
Failing plasticity elapsing
As emotional climates form
What person did I become
In leaving a habit behind
Never fully cultivated