i-see-cublickles
ice-cublickles,
much tooo square
f4r our taste.
cold and stale,
can’t be drunk.
smell’s is missing.
senses twisting.
ice.stream..sleeping.
heart: half,beating.
rest is waiting
4or a chance,
2to but once (2/4) live.
The metaphor that is us
That the metaphor could be us (&—ourselves)
is just what someone
much too wise (and/or crazy)
might say (and yet where’s the differerence?).
As a something—to be–,
no—not in the things—
but in the way
that we are…. that they are…
each thing’s selfness and same-ness…
their distant far-ness and nearness.
Just like a wide-open field
projected to points
that can never be quite known.
For the whole of this field is still needed
to embrance just this one
point .
(Among so many others).
The one that is us (= ourselves)
or something just slightly else (that is us?)
that can never quite be known.
3 cheers for munster quark
Hours hath turned
among the dunes and waves.
A lake of blood
and a tear,
bubbling brewing
slightly over
the edge of this land.
With a hand
pushing rocks
like a betlee,
rolling each wheel
of great machines,
half-beat measures of life
and all warmth,,,,
the other judged now
as death,,
the most frozen
of fingers
and edges.
nearly splitting from shaking.
with a fracture
just from moving at all,,
about and alongside
this here one ground.
As a ship
in between… summer’s crown
and the greenest of frost.
Breaking open and loose
with this here one bottle,
spinning in time
or a tide,
with an eye
collapsed
by a hook,
turning back
all the sands and hands of time
as a cheer
echoes forward
across this star-board.
A download—the cosmos
My brain is a trashcan.
A download—the cosmos.
Various,
unsorted,
observations.
Situations.
FishHeads or mermaids.
The moon like a flappingbird.
A scrabble of alphaBeths
re-arranged into christwords
and numbers.
Serious games
giving rise
to a text on a page.
Citrus smile
A laughter, a smile,
that is only slightly
bent out of shape.
Maybe if only…
to hold onto
the things that sadness itself
can never quite reach.
Just in between
every sorrow and heartbreak and wonder.
Halfway to crying,
the other part
wishing so hard
to see all of this beauty.
Turned round a corner
for not one style
was ever big enought
to represent
this single one life.
A song & tongue
slightly torn out of shape,
wanting to sing
in between all of the lines
things that squares can never quite grasp
with their
scar-covered elbows and knee-jerking
corners.
See—a face all too lemonade-smiled.
Just how beautiful
something must be…
when it can
just almost be happy
with all of this sadness.
I started blogging with for two purposes. To get my writing out there. And to connect with other people (both of similar interests (and maybe also others)). But both things kinda feel like a failure now.
So I ask myself the quetions if I should stop blogging?
I feel like the connection with people didn’t work. I’ve commented. (though finding a blog post where you’ve actually anything to say means that you might have to read many others first so it can be really time consuming. I read dozens of posts, gave likes to a handful, and commented on maybe two. That one day in my blogging career.)
So many comments doesn’t get a response. And the few that do are often “thank you for responding” and similar things that a (ro)bot could have said. I think “what exactly was it that you liked?” Pleasantries and appearance have overtaken actual real interaction. But yes there are still a some interactions that feels real. Some great people who … But too much of iy comes off as talking to the (proverbial) hand.
So I’m not sure exactly where this interaction or conversation is to take place. On my blog, or on others? I’ve gotten a few comments on my blog: “I like this!”, “Love this”, “Amazing”. It’s really hard to get/have much of a conversation from that.
I think there’s also a conflict between personal interaction on one hand, and technical/informational and “professional” interaction on the other. Technical posts, informational posts, etc, are often less personal. Technical conversations doesn’t really do much to make me feel connected with other people.
Most blog conversations are too much like this: A: says something. B: says something. BOOM. Conversation over.
In real life this woould be considered extremely antissocial. My whole blogging experience have felt so much like talking in an echo chamber. Occasionally I might hear a faint voice in the distance. But it turns out it was only an automated response.
I’ve posted 1 blog post on average per day for 24 days. Yet visitors have dropped off to almost nothing.
They say it takes 30 days to create a habit or to do something long-term. So I guess in 1 week I’ll know for sure.
A thing divided
At First,
someone wished to create it.
Then—things would quickly turn sour.
Every place, and every name,
was to be divided into others.
Even the hand…
would be going from just one number,
up until five.—
Then every part and every cell,
had to be doing it
again
& yet all over.
Until…
one point had turned into trillions—
from deserts and stars… shaped into heartbeats and eyes…
always whispering of another
little way.
And as they grew and (x*y times) doubled,
things started clashing together, &apart
into seasons and strife.
Hunger, confusion and aging,
all made them sour…
against one another.
To hold up just
one tiny shard
above all the others,
half had to be slaughtered,
while the others turned grey.
The words that are not my own
We dressed ourselves in words,
someone elses threads of thought,
speeches…
hanging in the air,
soon getting ready for plucking.
We weaved these together,
in (heartbreaking) hope,
that they would
become our very own.
But how can what is always others
still be ourselves?
Welllllll…
Isn’t there some small part
that we all share….?
You know, that little something—called LIFE
or even just being alive.
(even that infamous chestpump of ours).
A-one, and a-two.
Most of us still know
how to listen (to others)
if only
a small part of what they say
is ever really heard
beyond these few words.
Just a few drops of water
Circles within circles,
meeting, splitting,
breaking open
each other
like rings on the water.
Each one
giving shape to the others.
Only—
just a few drops
a bit of wind
or rain and sun,
to let loose a wave,
shape a cloud…
give a tear in the eye.
Only one single drop
or just few
to make these waters
boiling and seething
with life.
Curvature’s bell
Every meter is a clock.
Thermometer, hydrometer.
Weather and season,
rising and falling,
promise or debt.
Every drop,
all things solid and wet.
Each little eye(lid),
maybe half open,
or half close(d).
Even a finger—
something that’s moving
in time
or in space.
The curve of a finger,
and the measure
of a lifetime
and the remains
of everything same.
…
All too soft,
and yet endlessly hardened…………………….
in the stream
that is life
and all times.
Curving around…
even more softness
(like hillsides and waves),
standing too straight
when even
the world
had been bent
out of shape.
Measuring heartbeats,
in time, or in life,
like clock of the living,
against the clocklike machine
of the dead.
Facing ages,
loosing track
of all times
and all lives.
Until each one
almost seems to be the same……
only ever seen
through a mirror,
so very bent,
in and out
of its shape.
Lyrical Impressions 