A daily psycho geographic beat will often hook me up with street angels. Icons of the literati’s inner sanctum such as Shakespeare Walk or Hardy Street dot the city’s perimeter, framing a southern landscape set in stone. They wave at me from hi-viz chalk white characters—pointing this way & that like cryptic runes on traffic point duty. At morning’s low tide, I wait for jaded ghost writers & their silent annotations.
In morning’s light tones, the belligerent lighthouse plays hide & seek with lilac bushels of cloud fluff. Barbie pink petals fall like day-glo showers over a sea green sedan, as a furtive semi brève crawls through the gap of the driver’s window. It hovers like a tuning fork—turning it over in mid song, as I chip away at soft mounds of snow, pushing silently against the edge of another vanishing coda.
It might have been in one of those three syllable months with the decisive stress point smack in the middle; that hopeful quartet that arrive towards the latter part of each year, announcing the onset of milder days and less troubled thoughts.
It was more of a minimalist Haiku collaboration than an empty exchange of words. You said Tin Nimbus was on the burner, and awkward isn’t there when silences are shared and understood; they breathe the same air. Just for a second, I thought we had nailed it in one, Geoff; No need for a second draft.
If only I could record the inner workings at night in 4K pristine transfer—micro chips working sensory overtime, burning disc to disc in shimmers of HD excellence.
The nights carry stacks of neuro abstraction data ripe for the picking—teeming with oddly familiar faces that still retain their sense of uncertainty; where youthful sensations and heightened nerves stand at glass doors with white doves and jackhammers.
It’s a refinement of aural linguistics with just a hint of chicanery. Think torso extensions—a flagrant third arm swooping with meta particles running the fusion ecstasy gamut. Blades of metal tear away at delirium as the grin slowly widens behind aviator shades. It’s microtonal chaos delivered like pointillist warfare at murmuring heartbeats; scattering cascades of brain matter over diamond dust.
It constitutes the last gasp of a wordless haiku—peering through snow drift icicles on a zen photographer’s window pane in bright alabaster winter is like watching stars melt inside the expanse of a late period Rothko.
Ground German glass pierces the fog of memory spirits—each recalled and submitted for review before imminent trial and sentencing.
Like the actor gazing through a cigar haze at his cloudless secretary, it is only what might have happened between the now and then— the minutiae of things left undone until tomorrow.
They watch through vapours of Pernod and cigarillos inside a cork lined bar—the French essayist and Scandinavian emeritus professor; toasting each other over easy giggles.
It seems faith has been renewed at the vape store this morning. All that concrete clutter and big blue smoke has had it’s way with her
Aspect ratios and minor affections of those left behind have cut tracks on her forehead, but she is of another sprightly coil. Rear view mirrors have shown her these things tend to evaporate—settle into a sharper pale milieu kept under lock and key.
For now, she carries on making heads out of tails from customer inquiries—floats around warmly lit displays and brown carpet spaces as if nothing had ever happened.