Oh the Ships, They are Sailing

oh the ships they are sailing
I can see them in the distance
they are sailing for new lands
where our fates will no more meet

like a lighthouse I am shining
over rocks and waves and froth
a message in slow staccato
spin repeating melodies

slipping sliding worlds are changing
the land it meets the sea
one day the tide will come in
and the water will swallow me.

I want to tell the story

I want to tell the story of a man who woke up one day in the second partition of a book and wondered how he had got there, who all these people around him were, and who he was in the first place.

He'd be someone you would like, or dislike, or possibly feel ambivalent towards. The kind of person who's a lot of things and not a lot of things at the same time. Not special, particularly, except that this story examines him close enough to make out the details.

He's done some things, both happy and sad, and touched some lives more than others. He has scars and funny stories about them, but if you asked him he wouldn't think he was the sort of person to talk about funny stories about wounds.

At this point he would tell you to stop writing about him, because others deserved their stories told more. But he would be quite easy to convince, once you played on his pride and talked about how his perspective would provide an interesting mirror.

AT THE END OF THOUGHT

We are reaching critical thought density. We are reaching the limit of human experience and creativity. All ideas will soon have referents. All possible memetic arrangements of said referents will have been produced. It is the entropy of human thought-growth.

We must become more than human, and redefine the possible. We must find new memetic paths too strange to even comprehend in our now limited state.

Some of us will become machine. Some of us will become other than mammal. Some of us will have no name, and some will have all names.

We will become more. We will become beings of thought. We will become angels.

Our lives will become as art. Our minds will become as worlds. Our destiny will become unknown.

- The Thinker's Legion, 5829 C.E.

the sky will carry you on

take your sadness by the collar
look into its eyes and breathe
your clenched fists in fear relax
as weight removes itself from them.
Turn away, into the wind
the air will bring another day
the sky will carry you on
the sky will carry you on.

I could tell you that

I've been watching the rain for hours and I can tell you that
Droplets are different, like snowflakes they glisten
The coldness comes not from the sky but from soul
Flowers look new and half-formed in the streetlight
Clouds do not drift so much as they roll.
Heart-aches and bone-aches are not very different
They come from weariness of some part of you
Feel in your body the moments of grey noise
Try to hum along, it's the least you could do.

waking in the morning

and I woke with echoes ringing in my eyes
I played fragments of music to approximate what I
had heard.
Just on the tip of the tongue/on the tip of my memory
A fading incandescence, a study in light and dark, of contrasts
and overwhelming enfolding grey
the sensation of gray
the temperature of it
a smile and then a whimper
almost the ghost of a touch
I am unsure if it was a caress.

please no

please no more
non-epileptic tonic-clonic seizures with disruption of respiratory patterns and complete loss of muscle control
no
closed dislocations of shoulders applying pressure on nerve bundles no
suture-requiring incision wounds with peripheral nerve damage no
hyper-allergenic reactions no
psycho-emotional solitary confinement no
sudden relational severances no
breakdown of social-societal linkages no
long-term erratic disruption of sleep cycles no
sudden traumatic kinetic recollections no
maniac-depressive logic loops no


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