Knock, knock

On the best days, I hide
Motherless, alone

My head on fire
And shaven, clean
Next to holy
I am, I am not

Prying the world
Away from me
Dreaming, awake, of
Mazes leading me home
Exoteric to esoteric

Hoping that
Underneath it all
Mnemosyne still loves me

10 out of 59

I wanted to write about clocks and the difference between the biological and mechanical varieties twisting our souls into captivity and so on, but now that I set myself to the task I find that I have no desire to write about anything, or at least I can't easily be motivated to write with such a vague task in mind. Poetry is not always easy for me. I think I have a good idea and then it dissolves by the time I get to a place where I can write. It always seems so good in my head and then once I am confronted with the stark reality of a blinking cursor it usually feels like a waste of time. Nihilist is not the half of it, my friend in the blue coat and vest of like raiment.


A Haiku in Honour of 10000 Days

a man at a desk
offered me a glass of wine
and I drank of it