My appliances don’t understand me. Random shuffle fails to keep measure with my tics. Unfriending strangers no longer fills me with a frisson of spite. I have been sleeping too much, and in my dreams, great rolls of fencing escape from captivity and flatten trees and houses. I go for long walks with my eyes shut because some days it’s too much work to focus. The slower I go the more I stumble, like a bench grinder with a decaying belt. I’ve been too happy. As my friend the skull likes to point out, it takes no muscles at all to smile. Glowering is a lost art.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Haha! Love it. Particularly the line: “Unfriending strangers no longer fills me with a frisson of spite,” which fills me with a frisson of mischievous delight.
Ditto! and the glowering.
Thanks, y’all. I just got another translation of Novica Tadic, and reading it seems to have broken my drought.
poor old eeyore!
Tragic, isn’t it? (That was true about the fencing, though — I really did dream that.)
FOR three years, out of key with his time,
He strove to resuscitate the dead art
Of glowering…
Ha!