Dying is not going gently
Into that night it is not even going
Going gone
It is not sweet words repeated into an ear
Hearing the call of another world
No one living can tell
It is not this plane that takes off
And never lands again
It is not those horrific images
The living are capable of producing
To frighten themselves with
It is nothing like what you say
About a seed that disappears into the tunnel
Of time and grows eternal in a multidimensional space
It is no robots working tirelessly
Capturing death in their hearts
It is not something you and I are intimate with
And yet when you stand there
In the doctor’s consulting suite
Listening to the fast beating
Of an unborn baby
Inside a living womb
You experience the sensation of dying
At its mostly lively tip

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The Edge

I love the swirl of purloined thoughts that
float in and out of my head
when I’m on the verge of sleep,
when plans for tomorrow meld into
abstract images of rollercoaster carriages
that hurtle along tracks in a honey sea of
green and purple and orange and alabaster filigree,
then emerge from the depths in a
fountain of four-winged pelicans
who sour over white-capped mountains
that forever change their shape

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Information Age Driftwood

The World Wide Web has me snared, funnelled, sucked me in
And all I can do is skim, ride this body board,
and rise on the nano-moment.
For I have shelved my brain, next to Britannica. Britannica.
Another grounded ship, sails folded
Wings bent but fairy dust is in this twilight.

I can’t remember, need not recall
It’s all on my hard-drive
That time when
That place so soft
I had a sensation of a pen in hand and a
Notebook that carved hieroglyph in me.

Old school, beta vid, Sunday non-committal church
I’m a relic of the paper age.

In sleep I float on algae calm waters
On a pod without an I
land on a shore without a fire.
I see a hill that halts my view and I am longing
For that memory stick of morning dew, a sunset pew
A concept of latte freshly brewed.

And I am bereft, where I left it all before.
On that shelf without a shore
My memory of you
(Britannica, Britannica).

There’s no laptop on this desolate isle.
The corner store is a cave full of orangatangs
And I am alone, alone, and in shock.
Aching and burning for that simple
Sense of self,
The whole me plumped with next door brady bunch comfort.

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Bad Form

punish it
for being so unruly
discipline it
if it won’t be quiet in the middle of the night
teach it
that a rule is a rule is a rule
cut it
when it doesn’t fit
hide it
for being so plain to look at
deny it
a home among the better forms
demonise it
as ‘the rotten apple that spoil it for the rest of us’
reprogramme it
into an appropriate and functional model
categorise it
so it knows where it belongs
publicise it
as something ‘extraordinary’ and ‘new’
sell it
at a suitable profit
repeat it
until the market has been saturated
kill it
if you really want it dead

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