Pearilous

Behold the pear
A harness made
From sand and straw
And intentions great
The many sights
Upon the shallow
Way beyond the gates
Of fate

A simple thing
That sweetness holds
By the neck, for
Bitter cold
Behold the wildest
Winter days
When even clouds
Have lost their taste

A soaring cold
Doth take hold
The ripe of fruit
And ransom holds
The promise of sweet
Honey suckled
From the branches
Of death’s own breast

Nothing lonelier
Than to be:
An empty nest,
A forgotten pear

Guestimate

Make no mistake
The door is ajar
People stand yon, gander
They come from afar

Aboard the lands
That swim oceans abroad
And sail near to see
The sovereign’s nod

Prod, prim and proper,
A load weighted off
Summer in some elsewhere
So foreign to god

The #MastoPrompt for Thursday 8th February 2024 is: #foreign

Adhesive Concerns

Requests for desk lamps
Will be turned down
By the persistent proliferation
Of prolific laptopsy-turvy
Heading—and

Speaking of headings

The irony is, profile pictures
Are persistently portraits, instead
In stead, the irony stems from
The mercurial un-irony
Of adherence

In one word—iconic

Flashpan

Do you find
The untorn mind
Is made of
Unreal design

A fantasy
That wears a breeze
And proceeds
Like all is fine

[Another part/stanza should go here. But I can’t think of anything. I’m open to suggestions so feel free to finish it.]

We are not made
To rust, the mind
Will never rest
At ease

Assured that
Creases will never
Cease–nothing
Escapes the screen

Neotenancy

An infinite forum
composed
of some kind of
underbelly-populace

but I can’t put my
finger on it

Memories of the past
and pangs of longing
flicker in my mind,
tracing light’s return

to dark–as night returns
to dawn

Each moment seems
a window of infinite appetite
for my curiosity–while
each window seems a lighthouse

poking holes in this scene, igniting
its winding maze of streets and shadows

Behold! this radiant sadness
throbbing with mystery and potential–
its air of sweet longing; not regret,
but with a scent just as intense

it is what it is, or at least what it feels like:
the gentrification of the void.

loomscrolling

The Fediverse, for me, scratches the itch of engaging in a digital reflection of a quasi-dystopian cityscape. It feels like an infinite forum composed of some kind of underbelly-populace. But I can’t really put my finger on it.

The simultaneous isolation and proliferation of each post elicits in me the imagery of sitting in a dimly lit bedroom, late into the night, by an open window in a high rise. The warmth of the room contrasted by the cold night breeze that slips in through the window, caressing the curtains into a pretty but melancholic flutter. Memories of the past and pangs of longing flicker in my mind like the twinkle of the city lights that bleed a lightness into the pitch black of the cosmic blanket above. Here, we are alone together.

And the feeling seems to intensify somehow the further I wade into the space. This dark underbelly seems of infinite appetite for my curiosity. In both directions–driving me forever deeper, and consuming all that I am and can offer.

Every other platform is only a new apartment block or office building somewhere deeper in this winding maze of streets and shadows.

It seems a manifest sadness; but one filled with mystery and potential. Enough, at least, to stoke longing. Not regret, but something close enough to feel as intense but retain a sweetness in flavour.

And yet, this ambiguity of the sentiment–the uncertainty regarding whether it is good or bad, sad or reassuring, or what it might even really be–appears intrinsic to the experience of this place itself, rather than a problem to be solved.

It is what it is, or at least what it feels like: the gentrification of the void.