all in a day’s bleak (17/May/18)

I found a book among the books, its title spoke to me as did the first page when I opened it door and peered inside… on any other day I may not have noticed it as such among the piles and rows of spines that lay or stood or posed in lean-too pose each holding one another up showing just enough to tantalise the wandering eye…
… I’ve read a lot of books over the years and this’ll be just another journey, I even pondered recently making as comprehensive as possible a list of all the books I’ve ever read but as I began mentally listing them the list grew exponentially and kept growing with a gnawing worry of its value unless I managed to remember every single one and being there’s close to no chance I feasibly could without forgetting one or two or tens from the list… it would be all or nothing, anything less just wouldn’t do despite my proclivity for making lists, being more than a bit of a listomaniac… hence this was one list that wasn’t going to happen….
… lists are the perfect foil for wasting time, though whether it’s wasted could be debateable, as they say if it makes you happy then it can’t be that bad, they are an ideal distraction, especially when the only word worth describing ones state of mind at the moment is bleak….
bleak
… the sound a lamb with a speech impediment makes…
bleak
… that shape-shifting mole that appears on your skin, lingering then mysteriously vanishes after which no one ever believes you had it…
bleak
… a blink that goes wrong becoming a stuttering eye twitch for the next five minutes or so yet imperceptible to anyone around you who again don’t believe you and think you’re just being a cheeky flirt…
…… what’s for breakfast?…. I’m glad you asked, porridge of course……….

© 2018 robert greig

motion sick (5/May/18)

I pick up a pen and words fall out
not necessarily though in the order I might want them too
like writing songs, wanting to realise a sound in the head, a compiled image of moving rhythms, swimming notes, auralscapes, how it’s supposed to be but in the end once committed and realised in the outside world it’s never comes out that way, how it should be, instead an unbridgeable dissonance
words behave the same
defiant little mischievites, so frustrating are they I don’t even know why I bother at all as much as I do, except
they make a racket otherwise, in that space annoyingly too close to my ears, rattling and clattering around and if I didn’t expel them, release them, vent them, they’ll just keep on rattling and clattering, so I toss them like rolling dice lest they rot my insides, inside out, in the same way Coke Cola does, that corrosive and addictive sugary beverage
inside the words are a poison, outside they become almost medicine, an antidote (to what I’m not sure exactly) temporarily inoculating me against re-infection
but it doesn’t last as more soon build up, like plaques, clattering and rattling plaques they recur, reignite
… I’m a hedgehog hibernating in a woodpile the day before Bonfire Night…
I’ll try to restrain them in ink
I’ll try to restrain them in type
I’ll try to chain them to digital eyes
“don’t be squeamish” I’ll say, “please excuse my wayward wordery that may go astray, miss a beat, step out of line, flick a finger, dance on your grave, exercise little regard and in fact don’t exercise enough becoming bloated, pompous and self-referential”, though sometimes they even make me queasy so vertiginously defiant they hang form their obtuse meanings
… it’s all too easy to become motion sick…

© 2018 robert greig

float/fade/dissipate (19/April/18)

conversation’s overrated… people talk too much… some never seem to stop… their mouths moving in time attempting to translate some inner monologue into something intelligible to an outside world whether that outside world wants to hear it or not…… much verbalising blah-blah-blah but so little said… like the difference between hearing and listening, you may have heard something but did you actually listen…… so much nothing evaporates within seconds of leaving the lips escaping at the speed of breath as though spurning the orator with a “must get away, must get away”… streams of niceties, background noise, the etiquette of strangers, the acquiescence of acquaintance, the predictability of friends…… being still like children with a new toy, trying to learn what to do with it while it defies us as intangibly as the air upon which it floats, fades and dissipates… and so often makes such a din before it does finally surrenders to space, such potential for richness all too often reduced to poverty and frequently leaving a bad taste in the mouth…… non-verbal communication gets smothered that endless inane chatter, the sound of their own voices droning on and on and on and on andonanaonandonandonandonandonand… see… it might turn into a mantra falling into a single note forging a visceral connection with the earths harmonic, the very note it too is humming at that very moment bringing gravity to its knees and aligning every molecule of air opening a huge pit of boredom into which we are all sucked once and for all and forever, amen…… that’d stop someone talking that’s for sure……… we all know someone who does it and it’s usually the one with the most grating or monotonous voice, like combing your ears with a porcupine or drowning in instant custard, one packed with e-values and preservatives and sugar-substitutes, sugar and salt and other type-2 diabetes time-bombs…… often what’s being said doesn’t need to be and frequently repeated as though their brain has run out of things to verbalise but for reasons unfathomable they feel compelled to keep rabbiting on regardless worried that if they stop talking they’ll no longer exist…. although quiet often  the listener might wish they didn’t… one could call it dullardry, the art of continuously talking to the point that no one not even yourself is listening and yet the mouth keeps going on andonanaonandonandonandonandonand……

© 2018 robert greig