Incorrect file format blues

I put my attachment in, wait to send it

Then I get a message, that I shouldn’t temp fate

‘Cause it all goes wrong, it won’t send its too long

I try to zip it, but that’s not going trick it

It still says you shall not pass
-chorus:

Oh I’m singing the file format Blues

Format not supported or size to big

I’m going to have a fit!

Oh I’m signing the file format Blues

I once tried to send by FTP, but it wasn’t going to let me

Just hit one of those firewalls,

shouldn’t have been such a chore

Made it onto a CD, then when I get to the other machine

It chews it up, crashing like a Sinclair!

-chorus

I thought I found my savior in a PDF,

I tried my luck to no success

It came up telling me it wasn’t a suppored file

I converted it back to doc, I’ve then written over my file with characters that look like tire tread!

– chorus

It’s just going to have to be printed out

Shorly that won’t take to much of a test

Out of toner!

Give me a rest!

I singing, I’m signing the file format blues.

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Ducklings reflections in a lake

Nb: this is not about me. It is my feelings though.

In the day.

It’s spring. They come out at night. Flowering.

The hate from them is like pollen. Like a stench of the past. Because it is death.

Watching these ducklings on the lake I can’t help it. Towering.

Above us it sits. The useless skyline. Technology can’t do it. It’s just keeping a sense of the real life. Clever it was meant.

Those ducklings are happy. Quacking along. Mother keeping them in toe. I think of how many more springs that are coming for me. Cowering.

These nights. These days. The mostly white flowers here are to some pure. Really they are a lot of metaphors. Lies. Pretty lies in my mind. Lament.

In the night.

Is that night? A little sky full of stars? The ducklings are asleep in my hands. Mother on my lap. How can I keep them safe? From the dark? From the monsters? Questions. 

I feed the mouth. This visceral tooth holding flesh attached to me. Sickness in. I’m not going to be hear next spring. I can hear the monsters in my mind. They are close. So close. They. Can try and eat me. But I fight. For my ducklings. For their mother. I’m going to be here as long as I can. For as many of the best things. 

The night. I know they are scratching me as I sleep. I see the scars. I smell them on my clothes. My ducking share safe. Their mother is safe. I will probably eat something more soon. Better food. They will play again. On the lakes surface. Never know that they are on the surface of my mind. Reflecting what is good. Those blessed things.

The sun.

The morning. 

I’m alive still. Monsters gone. How much longer? I’m going to find out. I’m going to know. The ducklings will they miss me? I’m not sure. Even when I’m dead I’m sure to miss them. Like a bells ring.

Spiders, birds, books, wombats, nerds

Riding the noises in the forest fae

Spiders, birds, books, wombats, nerds

Strange library, evergreen, oh don’t mind me

Pinky promises flowering essence, cool Ghostly presence

Little strange new dreams of machines, none of them clean 

Rocky colors, shook the duller capture 

Fresh kill to the bones of the Trill, they’re after the carrion fill 

Hot cups, gimlet luck, blue blood, true mud

Flicking others, shadows like cothered muffeled mussel 

Dripping with spite their is the spike, and the hill of the place of the armsted respite 

Besides that their it is, a spokesman for the next new species 

A fairy and a robot, a gathering thought, waves

It’s hand is up, sucking on the teat

Newborn, but not a newcomer

How quickly will it learn? 

Of the spiders, birds, books and nerds? 

Endures, the Perl

Well that wasn’t even the justice of the curls in the system 

I’m sore as a whole bunch of petitions 

Piles of cheats and gassing hermits in leering metal boxes

so I hear they melted down the ox’s

Great beanie islands, sitting in a million times their volume of views

Ques, cues

I anguished. I stepped. I swore are you doing not the right sight. That true box of things that weels it’s place, seems to know more about your directions 

Curly, your just like them 

Grenadine, mixed in tears of a virgin

Lonely, like a oyster 

You will blame the system then the others

Never see the ocean of muck you are in

Is that your fualt? Your future?

I’m just a pearl

I’ve got no cleavage to cut with

I’m anguish, I’m hatred, down into the salty sand I will fall when your gone but a memory in the heart of the ocean.

I’m part of a potion

Coming into the second hands higher than thou attitude 

I’m just dirt. I’m not nothing, but it’s how some will see me. 

Longest canopy tendrils

Be sentenced, denting the nose of ticklish airs

Gum to you the sky is the only thing to reach 

Opening up to you she heard your crazy cries

Wearing earrings on your branches, the company of the sun

Access the vessel in cloudscape to wounderd drops 

Grasping the points on your faces infamy, you poison the growths 

The sentence is completely done, denting this nose in ticklish airs

Koala, never a bear

Camp etTongue 

Angry angels antagonistly anticipate an average apocalypse.

Bored Bandicoots bandage brassieres to bring back bebop.

Centralized Centuars counter argument that most creationist of creatures the Cat.

Taking to talking in telling tounge twisters Toucan told a tale of tinkling tendrils to tantalize the thoughts.

Lion Leo lounged luxourosly licking lenticular lines lazily.

Frenzied fur seals fouruouisly flounce figure eights while fishing their fill.

Mindindfully meditating on malice and fishing minced meats out of his mandible, Manticore mislayed the latest edition of men’s weekly, featuring the mets. 

Watching wistfully Wesal went about her wisend ways and wrestled with her winter stockpile of walnuts.

Chilled chinchilla commissioned Cockeral to count consecutive children in the counterintuitive hope it would chase away the chills.

Friendly Fox found finishing frittatas in a fry pan a feindishly futile fellowship.

Generally Goose gives out grapeshot but Goanna grabbed the wrong goods.

Entertainment Eels and enchiladas, Elephant eases into his role as lord Eastwick. The Eels later endeavor to enscribe his entertainment as electrifying.

Jaguar just jives the night away.

Carrion

Given into the dark

Rotting, slouches of flesh

Eating, crunching, mandibles slicing

Casings filling the remaining bits

Soil, aches full of the noises

Revving, is the true job

Dirty, dark, disgustingness is the frame

Really, you are just a nessasarry part of the whole 

Carrion, I salute you 

Spilt essence of light

The cookies and milk served to the star gazing kids

The musings and silt in the bed of a man panning for gold

The name of the police woman who gave you directions

The little eventual feeling of warm you know will come when spooning your soup

The first flower that pokes out of the ground

The thunder that lets you know that the storm is over

The warm screech of the violin that plays afar in the kitchen radio as your parent makes dinner as the other plays games with you

The feelings that that person on the park bench will never be able to remember as the cold cinders of night rots at their brain

That comfortable mystery you feel as you think about something you think is a universal truth but cannot be experienced by all

Something incandescent 

You can touch it sometimes 

It’s there. You can feel it.

Like a blank canvas with no inspiration, you can’t find the words to explain.

You look at others. Your like them. You want to be them. You need to be them.

Every thing in your body aches to be like that.

Everything in you life makes sense when you image your life as it.

But they tell you it’s impossible. Or only bad people do this. Or that your not really one of them. Or you can’t be like that. 

Sometimes though it’s you. You hold yourself back. You can’t get yourself to be yourself. 

Like a tadpole to scared to be a frog.

Like a flower to scared to be a seed.

Like a cloud to scared to be rain.

You exist. You love. You feel. You even try. 

People want this person. The one you create. To be the real you. And you try. You try so hard.

Like a green light trying to be red.

Like a camera trying to be a photograph.

Like a letter trying not to be read.

But it’s their. Like the rain falling. The light switches on. The camera takes a photograph.

You can feel this. Here. In your heart. Down in your soul. Telling you. Wishers from a moon. First far away but slowly. Surely. It. Is. Deafening.  

And you try to hide it maybe. You try to makes it a secret. 

Failing.

So hard.

So worth. Your being. Your seeing. Life as you can only continue in a conundrum of being not the you that people think is you.

That little seed. You keep hidden.

You hide.

It begins to bloom. A radiance that slowly shows.

Then one day. 

Your the real you. 

And you think. Why did you ever?

And you remember how impossible it had seemed. 

And you remember you have so far to go.

But your fuvally stepping.

Like the path that speaks your truths. 

Five circles of darkness

Battle, a war, a war. We fight, and die and feast on our own humility. We take and give to the hatred of ourselves and pretend it is the others. Take a light, a light, touch on the world, if you are to escape this infamy.

Depletion, reaping the sown life of our gangrenous infection. Any world who would take us, would fight against us eventually as we justify our means by the ends we imagine. Our imagination is a universe which is perfect, the imperfect nature of our world is known, yet we still strive on to create this deception for ourselves.

Balance, candies on a train of life, we must take heed of the warning our mother gives us. She be but a breath away from taking us to a fiery death from which we will be lucky to revive. Revive, survive, a place we must strive to capture the wastes of our infamous industry.

Nature, is a cruel but necessary goddess. She exists in our anthropomorphic imagines but we do not listen to all our own thoughts. The sign on the door is one that can only have one meaning, but we ignore. Ignore.

A key, voyeuristic doorbell, and a blue box, from which we wish to escape within, a universal season. Habitat, full of rats and cats and bloodsucking bats. Our last survivors will know only a few pages of our ignominious law. A thorn on our nation, a call to our station, but never a pause to libation. We will be the creators of our elation, a rapturous capture of all of our extractions. In fires of midnight, we will clasp hands and give thanks to a musky pouch. A key, inside, holds our last hope. A library full of the works we have ignored for so, so long.

NB: The words to start off this poem were given to me by Blair King, whose blog you can visit here: https://peoplethingsandlife.wordpress.com/

Warehouse on the beach

Open sky above a cornflower sea

Smooth sand crumpled in waves

Red rust and so much dust

A slab that’s been eaten away

Crabs and octopuses live in little pools inside

Mosquitoes and frogs and little salty tree

The roof has almost gone

Where did it go?

Their is a staircase to nowhere 

And a so many rusty walls

A frame for something

Little rusty machines whose purpose now is to provide shelter for oysters and plants and little spiders

Eels are near one end, hiding in a salty briny pool the waves have cavound away

A little sign still somehow hanging on for dear life says 

“We work to make a better world.”

A little breeze and it finally lets go of its final rust filled screw

A clang. A noose. A place to be dead and be forgotten.

Tonight it is my home. Tomorrow I move on. I wounder if I want crab or eel for tea. 

Haze of life

I walk the streets, feeling meek
A cloud above my head
Feeling utterly dead
What was that they said?
I’m not able to hear
Fear, hate, they are dear, to me
The haze of life around them
Their plastic lovesick pup and the leash they are on
At least they could try to see the whips of their barren masters
They are created casters of spells you cannot tell

I walk the streets feeling meek
The haze of these things in the air
I try to show them how things grow
Through the pavement path my children sowed
The path is poisonous though, it suffocates them
I still try
Maybe some hear my song
Sheltered by the tree one stands
She smells different
I see the haze has lifted from her eyes

One of them
The rest of the day goes well
Walking the streets feeling not as meek
Then I come back to where she was
And they, those sprits of plastic
Like a cloak on her back
Trying to re create the haze
She looks at me and sees me
No one has ever seen me for centuries

I tell her I am Jack
I have your back
Now you see
You will be free like me
And then there are two of us
Walking the streets, feeling not as meek
Maybe we will find more soon
My feet are so tired

Flight and keel

Insidious remark of hatred

Leaving a mark

Newspapers fluttering in the wind

Not lean to kin

Herald to taste the smoky winter rains

Acid washed feeling sunshine

Popped pit of olive lime

Destroyed tower of sanity

Tripe of lies given a truth collection

Snide pimple on the face of humanity

Revelation present dime

Table 192

Growing walls
Shouting out
Dead skin in dust about
Quay of circles
In the time
Vending paper
Mending minds

Jacks so hungry
He’s up on the wall
Musk and vanilla
Full the hall

Central table
Jump lines
You do
The seen
The many
Shapes of limes
Mad as ice crushed crimes

Simple people
With complex stories
Jack takes up
A moment of your time

Train goes past
Ever so fast
In the cartridge of the past
Inn to stay at
St James as well
the arrows, the rack smell

Trees and bushes
On the wall
In Jacks we trust
For Jack alls we get

20140525-152757-55677172.jpg

Market

Clouds slowly kissing, kissing gently the bluefish sky
The rain is wet, but not an implement of cold
Leaves fallen on trees still linger on the ground, do they hate their former owner?

The main path is clear, but still stained with ages brown distain
We watch each other, meal long over but still remain

A whisper makes her hair climb slightly, like a bird not quite ready to find a new meal
Clasping cups that remain in heat of a baristas timeless work

Gracefully caressing from her frame in quaint herald of her bosom, a red and silver dress
Flowers of Eden, yellow, purple, blue, touch and take the eye to every magnitude

Words are ready, staring at her green eyes. Love and desire clearly filled. A sensual milk. A couple of hern. Claiming nights of skin touches melting inside a pool of cool solid and ever lasting words. A gathering electrict storm. A building gathering moss on its last day of life. A number of infinity discovered for second. Then.

Another cup of tea.