So just after I decide
to dive back into the
frothy pool of words that
is poetry, my laptop - which,
incidentally,
contains the picture which
was to be
the inspiraton for a complicated
piece on gods and cities and
rivers and lights - decides
it needs to repaired.
Well,
it's been under monitoring
in intensive care for a few weeks with
no sign of change - "Sir,
we're still trying to replicate
the issue", which in many
(other)
circumstances would be a wonderful thing -
and reports are pressing and
conferences are waiting so
any words have thus far
been bubbling basically
in my mind.
There's
a particular phrase that does
seem to stick around
like pancake dough on a pan,
but I can't quite get it
to the right temperature. So
because I missed this
little domain I thought,
"Hey Sam, write something up!"
and here I am, words
consciously streaming like layers
of icing to a cake.
Leave them that way,
it's prose, split them up -
four words or so, depending -
and it's a poem. Or so
they would like to think.
Sadly, sentient serenades sing
(only) softly.
