“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Friday, May 27, 2016
Minced words atop static
Static carried on air
clings to its own non-being
i'm-potential
like white
white of poltergeists
or the white whir
i'm-between
towers
Interference splits
with pixel holders
i'm place
Spliced volumes
inaudible water
falls
These were always empty buckets
As a book is a chalice fore-
thought
Media makes masks
with hollow eyes
re
perceptive
think for me-tell me-show me
Empty
w/out your feedback
reciprocating back feed
in mixed media-the medium
is largely the message
fully charged.
Image By Darjac (Scanned by Darjac) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Justice
It is only with calloused hands that the heavy body can claw and leverage the self upward on the thorny vine of a life without wince and whi...
-
Natures touch is both gentle and fierce. Homo sapiens trample on her back. The thick skin impossible to pierce. So...
-
Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...
-
Sun lifting the veil of purple sky- might bronze forge strength pungent as the turned dirt? Thirsting through exposition, hi...

No comments:
Post a Comment