I am out of words, and yet
\nthey riot inside me
\na cacaphony of complaints,
\nlaments, exultations, exhalations,
\nrants, moans, cries, whispers
\n(…uncomfortable silences…)<\/p>\n
There is always a scene
\ntaking place somewhere
\n(the grips and gaffers
\nnever get a break)
\nall the green rooms overlap,
\noverlying the stage, skulking
\nin warehouses, alleyways, street corners,
\nlanguishing on cold pebbled beaches,
\nvacant sun-blasted plains,
\ndeep green forests wet with rain
\nsun burning fog drowning light blasting shadows<\/p>\n
Words fill me to overflowing
\na non-stop babble of voices,
\nmusic, arguments, diatribes,
\ncalls to arms, well-worn jokes,
\nsoap box monologues<\/p>\n
Yet cat-like they ignore
\nmy pleas, not one will come
\nto my beck and call
\nthey will not heed, sit, stay, fetch, roll,
\nbehave – oh, they will bark,
\nand bite, and run, how they run
\nas far out of reach as truth and astronauts<\/p>\n
They shun this infernal machine
\ntoo many of their siblings birthed here
\ntoo many caged, corralled, squashed,
\nbeaten into paragraphs, sentences,
\npoint form bulleted lists
\nformatted, chopped, diced, broiled
\ntidied, cleaned, defaced, butchered<\/p>\n
Refusing digital bondage
\nthey yet mock the bald antiquity,
\nthe quaint solidity of paper
\nfaced with the laughable simplicity
\nof a black roller-ball pen
\nmy prose stumbles and staggers,
\nwanders off course, forgets itself,
\nits name, the way home,
\nmuttering in confused circles
\nhands flying like tethered birds
\nflapping vainly for a kind of freedom<\/p>\n
We are only here by virtue
\nof this flesh and blood interface, this
\nthinking machine, this sum
\nof immeasurable parts
\nyet the interface is faulty, limited, dull-
\nwitted, and far, far too slow
\nfor these frenetic whims and fancies<\/p>\n
This resistant weariness, this sullied
\nsullen petty vanity of vapours
\nsits not well with me
\nI would soar among the stars,
\nif only I could teach myself
\nhow to forget when falling
\nhow to forget to hit the ground.<\/p>\n
– T.H.
\n05.16.11 (Amadeus journal)<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I am out of words, and yet they riot inside me a cacaphony of complaints, laments, exultations, exhalations, rants, moans, cries, whispers (…uncomfortable silences…) There is always a scene taking place somewhere (the grips and gaffers never get a break) … Continue reading