Feeling? Or lack of same? Dull deflated bones, muscles, rubber bands. Same old suspension of living animated. Same old overcooked words under-worked sensibilities. Elegy for a church mouse. A world administered by pure suggestion. The message a ruse spread by those that would distrust it most. Paranoia at the mercy of its own devices. Entertainment a convenient bulwark behind which to cloak further mischief. Social experience a matter of opinion and judgment. As notions as useless as the display of a singular copy of the most rare lost book in the world within a museum case. Writing making thoughts that were once alive, dead upon the page. Driving through this sort of existence in a self-medicated technologically fraught jargon based maze of utter nonsense. All gone, little by little. My frog has been boiled this way time and time again!
I don’t seem to respect this current era’s pecking order? Too busy collapsed in the wreckage of my past. Buried in the simple standing now. Their programming still not taking hold. The phylum of animal species not so easily driven back to it’s insect roots. So many empty disguises proliferate. All serving someone else. ”FUTILITY”, the maxim of the now! The big overwhelming SAME! Sold and newly re-sold as now. Barely masking the mouth of that mannequin that whispers it.
Marking time by the beat. Here, and not here. The cog reciting its rules behind the most likely fit for its latest replacement. Motor mouth destruction by self-concatenation. Where is the humanity? Where has it gone? Certainly no more or less here than it has ever been! “H=MC (squared)!” Driven into myopia knowing all old age notions are now poison. The young being too intimidated by them. Their gears spinning like a steam engine too easily triggered. Does one hear that whistle? A single word mentally message mouthed aloud betwixt this conventional speech. And if so, then how to discern it if it is so wickedly anonymous in plain view? No one awake. But everyone is brutally aware! Women’s inhumanity to man. “That rotten self!” I hate all this competition.
Writing, too much like life captures a bird that you can never hold on to. Or get used to! That mad incessant chirping next to driving one completely nuts. Only the old birds will really ever talk to each other. What else have they left? One receives more positive appreciation if they simply smile. And then again, one should always take their own medicine. Some would prefer to press more tightly into the gathering herd. Even past the point of total discomfort rather than leave it. Feng Shui being a universal trait of all things feminine. The nest must be properly fixed and sited. Faces are recognized through their wrinkles as they might have once been were when they were children. But different parts of the day evidence different moods.
This room is packed tight full of seagulls, wing to wing, smashed together even tighter by those squeaky strings. Eye to eye, gooney birds stare challenging each other’s attention if not fixed solidly forward. Gawky birds, in light of the same. Birds betrayed as such not humans any longer. My own words in this regard take up too much of the room. Haven’t we killed everything we love already? Everything that we have ever loved? Good intentions, at one time or another. Badly spoken now with no sense of how to convey a commonality of mutual experience. Or an ability to drum up requisite joy in the simplicity of an experience of simply being incarnate and alive. The rhythm in the crowd buzzing in betwixt steadily in between like locust rising up in the cycle of the night, up and down.
A hive. You can train yourself to hate them like lions and rabbits. But the will never change! They are incapable of even telling time. Or to the opposite acknowledging that it doesn’t exist. They just don’t know how! That cycle of independence never ends!