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 A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, and got in your eye. |
| Chose your own relation adventure: Self-editing the informing chromosomes leant by them in a redacted, daily life of repeated recompose. Redaction, editing me from myself Would require a rewrite, enmbellishment, A life not lived, but from experience. Reduce personal pronouns to rubble In the town called yslf and fake it Until you don’t recognize the author. Reduction result could catapult, But likely indignantly insult me. Yslf couldn’t flourish without me. Whitewash a wan face, aged, recalling Nothing noteworthy, knowledge gained In a recreation-ist image worthy Of another’s homage to self-deceit. We trade our mirrors that deflect, reflect Into clear pools of time, whitewashed. The silt of soul, not so far below as we reach, scoop the unrecognizable image floating. Alone, we walk this journey — aimless — as yslf doesn’t incorporate with me. Looking on at the former, not reinvented, Not used for spare parts without catalyst, Disparaged, stolen, paved over in yslf. Only the mechanic knows which vehicle true. He only maintains the two, less narrative. He’ll continue polishing the windows But none can get a vision passing through yslf. Inhabitants are far and between, not so near To know the former as spirited, impassioned soul, But lobotomized, unsanctioned, on life parole. Roaming the villages of yslf, only me knows. Bright lights, broad avenues, all leading nowhere, As yslf is a never ending journey back to the start. Only the mechanic understands the navigational, Having tested this vehicle himself. Wheel-locked, Parked in yslf, a memory glimpsed jump starts me. And I begin by writing a litany of odes to myself. I’m what’s important, not what others may think. 4.5.25 Concert in yslf, raising awareness for lost souls to reclaim (placeholder)… The introduction as summary is all one needs to read to know, apart from the absurdity that forces (placeholder) underneath. There is no ground. ‘Pencil pushers’ I wouldn’t have guessed when I selected yslf’s ceremonial band song. Video even in darkness. R.I.P. to that band. Stay tuned. Predicting the future of yslf: どうもありがと Mr. Roboto どうもありがと Mr. Roboto また会う日まで どうもありがと Mr. Roboto 秘密を知りたい Influence forces the town underneath from fire-breathing creatures ‘10 stories’ high. Whether or not it translates, me doesn’t care. I’m always in rewrite. So were the barn walls of yslf. |
| Allegorical (placeholder) fantasy, a creative exercise in indulgence, once more Hit it boys!. Stage Direction: Everyone in their places, were reading to roll. Narrator: 2006 — an empty stage sets our scene. Our witless writer is cued to walk in… Direction: Action! In that comfortable chair with drink, put on that music you like and write with Chekhov’s gun in your lap. Type words on all the world’s screens. A scene protracts — a sullied oracle wrestles with gray mystery, lingers in doubt — expansion into black, a coded void of silence. Adjust the nuisance, wobbly backrest, unquenched, Rhythms create a boundary in space, thirst. Going back in, the second scene arrives with a writer unholstered. There is a clueless, murderous lot, I gander? Ignorant gossip embellishes amongst them, defaming him — as toilet stall slander scrawls a journey, endless. Wheels catch carpet, can’t roll or lean in. Empty tumbler, favorites fading into unknown songs spinning. In this saddle, every word and unspoken thing frozen sets. Truth, or fiction? I get a whiff of it again, unending — serialized and practiced from those cornflakes slamming a paywall dispenser. Signs point him, ambling hombre, into a horizon-spectrum, spreading. This play — not well-constructed craft, failing. Frankly, non-sense. There never is a second act of our own choosing — just charade for interlopers intermingling, time depending. A crafted, glorious scene, hyperbolic, awaits each dreamer. This man is gun, mis-typed, ill-conceived, and crumpled, clicked and heaved into a corner bin. Make sure to eat those cookies. Do writers ever think about that? Words disposal is as easy as typing lies into truth — cause, Bang! Finger-pistols aim at the inner Chekhov. ——————————————————— Epilogue: All other writers have handed in their papers. He looks up, watches exodus departure, one by one. The entire room depixelates him from characters in blank scene. Never more un-real in the legacy of this white sea, me. 4.5.25 / 4.9.25 58 lines to here, free verse . Peruse further at your own risk. (mind still needs purge, produces further on below…) ——————————————————- I never said I was a good writer — you did, before unpinning that pride from my lapel. Dust indent-ion tweaks (still) the tinkered verses, rearranging. —————————————————— Who’s writing this life story? Me? Me, right? No? What’s narr-a-tive? Is there a question and answer, or…?? *reads litigant-provoking bathroom stalls.* —————————————————— Can’t read handwriting or intentions, ever-flowing in collaborated vortex full of witless fury provoked, as witnessed in grade two. When world, hear this voice (as intended)? *with tablet key, on pixel board he holds, but it won’t motivate a character to move. Not like you.  Serious…any questions? Can anyone see me??  T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ It will go public. |
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