Writer, doodler, hobbyist of various things.
Lives a precarious life balancing on the equator (in the small red dot of Singapore).
OatmealI am resting with a bowl of oatmealOatmeal by TheGreatSpyExperim
Not in a hurry to get anything done.
The day has yet to begin,
Where it will lead I do not know
But it is full of promise.
I rest in the joy of my anticipation,
Stasis on a Saturday morning.
I could learn to live like this,
Reclining and watching the aimless sky
To be filled with forgiveness.
The Harvest WagonThe eye follows the farmer, girdled by a cloudThe Harvest Wagon by TheGreatSpyExperim
He raises his whip in the moment of action
And it herds the sun, some bolt of lightning
Snarling, Hermes asserts its position
That has been tarried by its silken ears.
Always, our despairing claims of place and position
Eager to reach the center of the universe.
The thunder will die down, sick of our arrogance
His golden load will shred to hay
In the harsh voices of his wife and children
The animals bleating in his yard
And the rattling of feed trays to be filled.
The painter hears the fury of the horses
Sings quietly with the envious storm.
The poet emerges to the rustling of long grass
Beaten by the wind, such movement, such fullness.
The gallery is emptied, the audience returns to their lives
Distanced from this hillside
Some nights they stare into the vivid fire,
Groping around for loaned brilliance.
In the Middle of the Mojavegarish colours in a sandboxIn the Middle of the Mojave by TheGreatSpyExperim
and the deep Carolina blue sky
that has seen all
arched its back overhead
as the current flicked out
and the beds of the pools started
the yucca here are special
you cannot touch them
they feel like straw
they bend a little
the dust motes on the concrete land come from above
there is dust everywhere
the parched concrete floor is white and
marbled with dust-banks
places where the wind
reached down to slow itself
as it careened through the
you can see the gaps in between slabs
places dotted where foliage began to
they are wrinkles.
filled with sixty year old dirt
and slips of straw.
there is quiet decay.
there are arcades
foam and sun falling through their ceilings
there are hanging signs waiting.
in the middle of nowhere
you cannot read them
Idle World-EsteemIdle by TheGreatSpyExperim
1. Rating one's surroundings from 1-10; the scale misleadingly missing a maximum, having grossly underestimated the human superpowers of comparison and dissatisfaction.
2. Thinking well of one's situation but always hitting a glass ceiling; Indistinct urge to peak optimistically accompanied by impossibly dense seed of doubt nestling somewhere dark. Symptomatic of smiling too hard for too long. Disproportional to candor.
3. Chivalrous attempt at consoling oneself.
4. Not evident in children who hold up Harry Potter books awaiting their Hogwarts letters.
Once again I existed in different states
With one foot in the dining table and
The other in a slurry of my own concerns
A rabbit dragged downwards through
Spontaneous chemical reactions of my mind
Is it distinctly human,
Noncommittal relationships with the environment?
In an idle instant we are imaging
Repercussions like a supercomputer
Ghostly futures of alternative worlds
Stirring our terror or dis
a bird's descenti might be strong now, but
birds fly higher
in a sky drowned blue.
the caress of wings still
spans my lips.
breaths disperse and
melt the wind, and someday
it won't be enough
to go on and we'll all molt,
shedding our wings on
bluer days. for
i might be strong now, but
there will be times when
isn't enough to go
on, and a day
when i'm not caged.