Archives for posts with tag: fleeting pixel no. 962

Slowly and slightly, on the mountain lying aslant on the table, it was alleged, snow was falling | For a moment, with the clear, generic good looks of the boy on the Photo-Me booth | The beautiful naked women were walking out of the sea, like this, to the sift and shuffle of encomia | the hands without rings moved | she joined the list, or one of the lists | Enough labour to build a pharaoh’s tomb | he wonders | do tombs count as infrastructure? | The unhappiness is unevenly dispersed | and people sense the injustice | they crowd around the entrance | like refugees huddling at the back of a truck | where supplies are being distributed | nervously, by the harassed employees of NGOs | he will not fret for them | for all his talents | one can sense his vulnerability | and she is young | she cannot command | the spiritual energy | it is a big ask | The hand with a ring | removes another chance of Alps, or Purcell at the crematorium | it is the assembly of good style | the manuals explain | by the refined | culling of unnecessary elements | Slipping away quite quickly | like the chance of werewolves | in the minds of abducted schoolgirls | his innocence surely cannot | Sadness isn’t a virtue | and the others are heads on stacked TVs | at the end of the working day | Doreen flicks a single switch | to turn them off | then nothing remains of them at all | then no one can call them beautiful


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, August 2016)

Slowly and slightly, on the mountain lying aslant on the table, it was alleged, snow was falling | For a moment, with the clear, generic good looks of the boy on the Photo-Me booth | The beautiful naked women were walking out of the sea, like this, to the sift and shuffle of encomia | the hands without rings moved | she joined the list, or one of the lists | Enough labour to build a pharaoh’s tomb | he wonders | do tombs count as infrastructure? | The unhappiness is unevenly dispersed | and people sense the injustice | they crowd around the entrance | like refugees huddling at the back of a truck | where supplies are being distributed | nervously, by the harassed employees of NGOs | he will not fret for them | for all his talents | one can sense his vulnerability | and she is young | she cannot command | the spiritual energy | it is a big ask | The hand with a ring | removes another chance of Alps, or Purcell at the crematorium | it is the assembly of good style | the manuals explain | by the refined | culling of unnecessary elements | Slipping away quite quickly | like the chance of werewolves | in the minds of abducted schoolgirls | his innocence surely cannot | Sadness isn’t a virtue | and the others are heads on stacked TVs | at the end of the working day | Doreen flicks a single switch | to turn them off | then nothing remains of them at all | then no one can call them beautiful


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)