in the age of hollow copies.
On nights when mirrored waves of air
are breaking in the clouds, the woolen ghosts
seep out of cast-off clothes, and squeeze
beneath the laundry door to loiter
in the garden.
They dance and laugh and play
strange games non-woolen people
cannot understand, and just
last week they rearranged the magnet
letters on my tumble dryer—
In the age of hollow copies,
never doubt and never waver,
never argue with λourself,
be definite and certain.
Should I say non-woolen
or should it be synthetic?
I wasn’t sure, I toed and froed,
and came to understand their warning.
Alpaca apparitions, quite a clumsy
turn of phrase, and even the urban
dictionary has no entry for λourself.
The other me stands at my side,
and second guesses everything I do.
I’m not concerned my grocery bill
has doubled, or that I’m sleeping
on the floor. But what I’d never
have imagined is that I’m such
a pedantic bore.
Sometimes I do a little symbolic algebra on the fridge.
I do like wool, in ‘a normal guy who happens to have a collection of wool’ sort of way.
Woolen wings—digital and abstract art, experiment with polyfilla, paint, paper, light, and synthetic wool.