In A Hospital
In A Hospital
In a hospital
Not much left to talk
Silence plots your king
Your queen takes everything
Or the other way around
The way it is set up
In a hospital
Not much left to talk
War deems everything
The way it is set up
As unnecessary beings
In a hospital
Not much left to talk
Silence plots your queen
The way that she’s being
Makes war seem unnecessary
Not much left to talk
In a hospital
Something about stars
Something about stars, a way in which they control through description(s)... the more narrative surrounding stars, the more unreachable and near they seem
they are said, many(?) of them, to be burned out - like patients at a hospital, shining brightly many years ago, right now (but/and not all, some have perhaps yet to be created...)
are they formed, created, creators of their own - from the slight arrogance of a viewer narrating they might seem, as Shakespeare hints of, combusting in failed narrative... to be... in our faults
From a guess of sorts... they would have to be broken to be spreading light, in such way
Those shining away from earth, are likely not to be called, stars, other than by such an inclusion
Frosty, Buddy
At the coffee shop
where I go
they don’t like me
just ordering coffee
cigarette awaits
impatient
failure as presented
ribcage bruised and sheltered
frosty, buddy
christmas has to be
in celebration of the technology
that separates man from snow
-
at the coffee shop, another
named after what it serves
a young lady speaks on telephone
her dad seems to own the place, he’s not there
frosty, buddy
melting in your warmth
Sheltered in your storm
To ask for seconds, be it chances or a cup
Differs from a coffee shop to coffee shop
Her dad speaks of war, and of the bore of north
He almost winks at me and says it’s not a place to go
Where they don’t like me ordering just coffee they don’t wink
They seem to celebrate another order of caring what people think
Frosty, buddy
A snowman given nose wakes up with a spark
He cares of what you care of and what you talk about
In celebrating consumption from which you got his nose
Technology that picked the carrot handed as a rose
Where they look with frowns at ordering coffee
There are what seems as empty books
As hollow computers
Triggers and brakes for words
Frosty, buddy
A snowman built of water, pebbles, carrot and a hat
Frozen into friendship, by exclusion from the hide
Stands in restless footsteps, built and left in cold
Which is the only way to survive for Frosty, perhaps not for his nose
Rowboat
Guys in a boat, under deck, seated on benches
A hole, circle shaped window in the wall, outside gentle waves, sun is shining on them, glistening
A man with a whip stands in front of them, whip behind his back
Guy 1 looks out the window
Guy 2: Why aren’t there any oars? How are we supposed to row?
Guy 3: No need, it’s solar powered
Guy 2: Then why are we here
Man with whip changes position slightly, uncomfortably
Man with whip whips
Tutoring, Of Sorts
It's like the tide, said Bertrand.
It comes and goes, like breathing.
It's like a chicken with it's head cut off, said Tarun. It comes, stays a while, walking in circles and you're unsure if it's going to leave or not, or perhaps if you should, because someone sent a headless chicken your way.
Well, they might not have sent it, said Bertrand and looked annoyed over having to play part in the metaphore, not deliberately to walk in your direction.
Tarun scratched her head. And from this we are supposed to calculate an income? She said holding back a nervous laugh.
Well, said Bertrand, just because a guy walks into a coffee shop and buys a cup of coffee doesn't mean he didn't have an interesting day. Sales are part of it already, and to some extent perhaps vice versa. The cottage in your story was bought and sold, before Goldilocks waltzed in like she owned the place. They just try to make money dirty so they won't have to bring it up.
And... began Torun, as if she was waiting to be interrupted, and continued; and, with that said... with monetization not necessarily being a negative factor
Negative not being enough to describe it, perhaps, interjected Bertrand.
... how am I supposed to make money of what I am doing without making it all about money? Continued Torun. Or at all, for that sake?
Take that sentence and see what you can do, give it a few days, said Bertrand, try it with and without, try it in a different order. Drinking a cup of coffee completely ignoring that it was for sale doesn’t make the cup any more of an interesting artefact, does it? Keeping flies away from a piece of poop, excuse my French, doesn’t make or break a piece of poop
Are you saying that a cup of coffee is... poop? Said Torun.
I am saying, Bertrand corrected his collar, whatever sounds good, preferably making money in the process… and I am adding… is that so different from, or indeed bad standing by itself, what most people are doing? How relaxed do you have to be before you produce something that can cash a cheque, Torun? Work!
An Elf To An Other
He had come close to banishing Christmas for himself. As he had stopped eating ice cream, stopped drinking alcohol, it was not that far fetched that he would be cancelling Christmas as well. Unsurprisingly, as his parents’ behaviour had changed in accordance with rich people's habit of disregarding seasonal changes other than by choosing a vacation-spot, and as they had read an increasing amount of magazines not featuring children and shaming ageing, it seemed something that they might be about to do for him. It was funny that they were cancelling Christmas, yet he played the Grinch. That was about class, he had come to, to a certain degree, understand. Although he could not as openly show on himself being of a “lower” class as people who had family-relations more traditionally visible in the ranks of middle rather than upper class, his family had started treating him with the same sort of sternness as rich people to poor in a Dickens novel. Or as towards a barking dog in the street, independent on his being quiet or not. They did not shoot dogs, themselves, likely because it would be frowned upon or they would have difficulty getting the permits. For they were quite openly lazy in regards of resisting the urge of hiring people to do jobs for them, and could rarely be stopped from not cancelling something other than a trip to an Italian beach resort. Cancelling things seemed a dear past time to them, he snarled to himself. They had read the magazines, and so they knew what they mistook for their rights. And they were furious for not getting them. If there is something for rich people to get out of dutifully watching coverage of poor people’s misery, it is their ecxpected rights. As a middle aged bureaucrat at a sooth-sayer they watched the reporters tread on in awesome silence.
And so he hesitated going there for Christmas, which had not been cancelled. Yet, despite, despite, despite… he was going, hesitating as a pastime on his walk over. He had long since stopped - another pastime of his (stopping) - regarding his wants and needs in regards to larger issues as something to care that much about, since TV would blurt out the usual stuff no matter what he did, no matter what he said. Christmas seemed to him as a sort of hostage-situation between classes highlighted in memorabilia designed to lure kids into metallic arms. It was also a moment to draw a breath and sigh “humbug”, that he somewhat enjoyed.
He knocked on the door since they had taken away his keys. Even when he was staying there, they had refused to hand him a pair. The humiliation was so heavy he had to increase his efforts of reversed hospitality and gratitude – he laid his own cards as theirs on the table and wished himself a merry Christmas with an increasingly guilty sigh.