Three irreconcilable pieces.
I’ve spent a lifetime being who I’m not,
yet my stigmata cannot be disguised—
nervous mannerisms, and
a dash of desperation in the eyes.
Whispered answers apologise
with extraneous explanations.
Soliloquies devised and never spoken,
conversations with imperfect strangers
are forever in the future.
The sedatives did not reply,
they fell and rolled, skittered
beneath the dresser, unreachable.
Their gods are distant, inaccessible,
and the pale eastern light brings no relief.
What are their dreams? Are there fins or feathers,
wings or words, spoken in some foreign tongue
that once was theirs? Do their personal voids
invade their sleepless nights?
Those whose desires are uncluttered,
who merely seek sincere appreciation,
the discounted and discarded,
whose needs are inarticulate,
who don’t know who to mimic
in a world of monkey fakery,
who deserve the weather,
who deserve better,
who deserve to live.
A fortune to be made, the spam advises—
the weather bought and sold on virtual markets.
For Perth, where thermometers are catching fire,
polar snowstorms delivered by Amazon.
When the West’s as desolate
as the Centre, the sympathetic
static and the barefaced lies
will bring no comfort.
The flames of greed
will be fanned
and future life,
the light to be,
will not hold a candle.
Climate change: never-seen-before temperatures in Perth.
Sunday’s Truth evolved by the visual evo engine, my software that seeks unimagined realms.