Communication Breakdown

Is it a fact that with increasing methods of communication and opportunities to reach out to others across the miles, we become more inclusive? Do we identify the fact that the chances of unwanted strangers bombarding us with hot air has increased, and so block any unwanted face regardless of their intent? This then makes it evermore difficult to meet new people or build stable relationships with fresh faces. So those of us who are lonely; those of us who are moralistically sound, open palmed and eager to discover new friendships are shunned away. What then if the social rejection becomes a catalyst for a downward spiralling self-esteem? When, in painful irony, the new communication methods, advertised as being able to help us to improve our social lives, are really to blame.

Just a thought.

New poetry xD

I'm not with it today. I think it's the remnants of a long week. The entrails of effort, that arrive on the scene all mushy brained and lethargic. I worked another function this weekend. And now, something that was once a fresh break from the bar and restaurant work I do back at the Alhambra, becomes a part of the pattern of everyday working life. It is time to move onwards and upwards. The poem I'm posting for today reflects my mood. I wrote it on a bus about a week ago. It's unfinished but I don't plan to finish it soon, so here it is.

Headache

It's not that I have the mind for

The arrow that punctures my frontal lobe

That electric gush of brain

And fist clenched teeth and pain.

Or prefer to go back, forth, back,

in a dragons den

With no light bulbs

No bright ideas but a diluted concoction

Fizzing away for a pulp bi-product.

What would otherwise be:

"Mmm. Pillow."

Implodes

And word thought word image thought word

word orbits

your black black hole

Into which you cannot sink.

The Blog.

Soliloquy Of The Solipsist.

- Sylvia Plath

I?

I walk alone;

The midnight street

Spins itself from under my feet;

When my eyes shut

These dreaming houses all snuff out;

Through a whim of mine

Over gables the moon's celestial onion

Hangs high.

I

Make houses shrink

And trees diminish

By going far; my look's leash

Dangles the puppet-people

Who, unaware how they dwindle,

Laugh, kiss, get drunk,

Nor guess that if I choose to blink

They die.

I

When in good humour,

Give grass it's green

Blazon sky blue, and endow the sun

With gold;

Yet, in my wintriest moods, I hold

Absolute power

To boycott any colour and forbid any flower

To be.

I

Know you appear

Vivid at my side,

Denying you sprang out of my head,

Claiming you feel

Love fiery enough to prove flesh real,

Though it's quite clear

All your beauty, all your wit, is a gift, my dear

From me.

There is a moth in my room. It thinks my lamp is the moon. It's not. It's my lamp. It flutters; gets confused about the fact that its soft head hits something hard before it reaches the light. No questions asked. It makes a U shape in the sky and charges back. It's only tiny, but it flew so hard it tapped against the glass then fell. I don't think it wants the moon anymore. Not like a mouse would if it was made of cheese.