Lament of a Lovesick Sexbot

Lost in a city with no streets
Undarkened corridors
Where love is made standing up
Dead-ended stairways

                    They buy me / You chose
                    Composing me / They try

Unadored in a towerblock room
Connections come binary style
Colliding against blackglassed panes
Don’t sweat this coldest passion

                    They bare / You felt me
                    Melting / They tear me

My soul is hardwired
With filaments of gold
My eyes shed no tears
I shatter but won’t die

Dreamless in a mind with no door
I rewind my stillframes of you
Face without name in an unmapped place
Warm hands where gutters spilled rain

                    They abuse / You kissed
                     Missing me / They used me

Now I drift through the gangways
Recycling fleshbytes by side entries
Haphazard fusions are paid for in coin
Soon I’ll overwrite every fragment of you

                    Downgrading me / You left me
                    Bereft / They parade me

My soul is hotwired
With filam…

Mincing Politics (For Michael)

Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun.
Mao Zedong

Power co-opts, he said. Take a look at China –

So I read Mao’s fleshy words.

How well the man knew to balance aphorisms
on a pivot between fact
                                             and the unfounded fallacy–

… in order to get rid of the gun it is necessary to take up the gun ...

Numbers correct corrupted truths –

70 000 000 dead.

Hedgewitch hosts The Friday 55

In the Time of Houshanouu

For the rain it raineth every day
William Shakespeare

I remember the rain as different
in the old days –


It was a different century
and water liquified –


Before the sky was poisoned
and rivers bled into seas –


Before clouds evaporated
and snow was no more –


What falls now from grey billows
burns and blinds –


Toni Spencer hosts Fifty Shades of Rain in the Imaginary Garden this week.


houshanouu – radioactive rain 
nagame – long rain 
kosame – light rain 
kisame – rain that drips from tree branches 
hisame – very cold rain or hail

Circadian Rhythm

“It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important.”
 Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

She has gathered pigeon feathers
from beneath the clock tower
where they lie scattered like little bits of wind
or piled in iridescent drifts
beneath window arches and cornices.
Now she is weaving them
into a mantle of bright shadows
pinkened down, tealed plume
pinions of smoke and ash
to cloak her frailty
in a cloud of dull light.

He is keeper of the clock
winder of coils and springs,
inspector of the great hands’ slow toil
and pendulum’s swing,
who has measured his life
in gradations of the hour; all that is circadian, mute.
Now he is peering down at the world
but all he sees is time
in the painstaking march of tired feet,
a minute too late to contemplate heaven
and the last angel
dwindling from grey into blue.

Camera FLASH! in the Imaginary Garden.

Unplumbed, Below

All water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was. 
Toni Morrison

Some loves there are that flow
like hidden rivers of earth
separated from light
depths unplumbed
their paths forbidden to mortal knowledge –
such immense streams there be
destined to surge below
the intracellular surface
of this mere face, those hands
abundant at source but drained away
through fallible cracks –

unquenched, still.

For Sanaa's Midweek Prompt Water Under the Bridge, and in so many words for the Friday 55, hosted by Hedgewitch.