Dec 14, 2017 · 3 min read
telling you the sound of it

Words follow one another. Chiefly the desert. Ok for you this time. Interest rates are falling. Attention at an all time low. Triggers are just bad ones. Everything is something else again waiting to be done with. Control is a measure and they’re sticking to it. Given the breath. The breadth of the doorway. Worlds I’ve felt with, being more than seen. How do you describe it? Explain it in a way.

There are sirens. They are loud. Too loud. Egomaniacs. Could you please stop shouting so quietly? The mind is in all of it. There are ways out of things that you get into. Looking for a truck to drive. Heaven is a place you dream about but it has no furniture. Being clever is its own reward, lost and found and lost and found and lost and then forgotten. It is feeling good to be hearing our own voices being listened to by us as though with satisfaction by an audience of it.

There is rhythm you are putting into it. That is not an English word until now when you say it and a lot others too and you’re famous in some way, then the dictionary wants you. Given the state of things, that’s that. Even with the blinds left open they aren’t showing like they used to, and seeing has become so charged out. There is sunshine and it makes me close my eyes. Softly. That used to mean pay attention, close attention, now. But don’t be a such a hard ass all about it. Edges weren’t as in back then.

So much is so much now when you’re listening to England. Some of them were modest. I am waiting for your book to be one, so that I can read it and not finish it. I will go off writing, ‘cause that’s the kind of trigger I am looking for. They aren’t all guns pointed at you. It’s a pleasure to be stuck on this page of yours.

Since you cannot be in charge, in case we sue you for it later when it’s not a mystery and when we think it wasn’t forces, it was only you and your dirty mind. When the bigger than us all is moving us together on its own and we’re thrilled and were scared and not owning it but letting it be happening. And it’s a mystery sublime. Then someone takes ahold of it, pretending they’re in charge, and it ruins everything.

Sometimes everybody else makes you be the author. Even though your head and hands clearly are to you still in the sky. There is air all around you and somebody wants you to be chief so that they can cut you down and then be chief themself. That’s the only way for someone like that to be chief. Then it doesn’t matter what’s between. If your navel is an innie or an outie.

Your skin is shedding on the lawn. But your neighbors have their faces pressed up closely to a tiny screen looking into mind fields, wearing great big clunky boots for the mud. Wind is something moving. You are looking into rain. There is also sunshine over there. Cranes are standing and are pointing with their finger to the package they deliver on the roof. One fell over in the wind and it crushed a car. Nobody was in it. Either was I.

These Are Not Words

poetic writing & photos by michael boyce


Written by

Poetic writing & photography by Michael Boyce, author of 2 novels: Monkey & Anderson — both from Pedlar Press. Currently working on his 3rd.

These Are Not Words

poetic writing & photos by michael boyce

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