| I SUPPOSE YOU'RE WONDERING WHO
Appointed me god, well it was One of those default situations, The position was vacant, and no One else thought they could do The job, and well if I can’t pull it off, and If this is where we end, Or indeed where the whole World ends, then to hell with it, it Don’t matter no how. This Is the real truth: all of These years, all of our ages, All history, everyone, anyone, Anything ever done or attempted, All of it was just prologue for an Age which will never come. — by Carl James Grindley |
TOTAL REFLECTION 2 by Tom Trippe |
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MY NEXT ACT WILL BE TO RECREATE
A single evening, when the beach front And the horizon colored themselves With the refracted light of Burning clear cuts, and the beauty Of the world spoke in one Little dopey atmospheric effect, and some Idiot, who arms circled my waist, Said: this one moment is paradise, This one moment is forever. We might as well invoke Obscure physical forces, become Reference works dedicated to self absorption, And drop tiny fragments of learning Into our overwrought nets, claiming later That this is what we caught. — by Carl James Grindley |
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THE GIANT
by Tyler King They say there’s a giant as old as the land, who wakes to the sound of winged specks of dust singing in the trees. Who searches till nightfall for some desolate spot to sit, taking care not to crush anything far below. They say they’ve seen him exhale fog, dressed in nothing but moonlight, his shaggy mane collecting midnight dew that falls to the ground in lakes. They say his muscles make wind by flexing; he turns his head, hands perched on knees like cliffsides, as if he’s trying to see the dark side of the moon merely by leaning a little. They say that to the giant, all the world must seem a crescent moon: a sliver of light next to a giant’s shadow. |
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