Spring seems a good time to write poetry. Actually, so does winter. We will see what happens in summer.
I forget. A lot. Thé sponge goes round the dish. The list of emails seems So Fascinating. Warned, I was, not to do things So Quickly. I studied the others. Those who read the instructions. So Slow. One hour before responding. At least. Unless it was So Urgent That it couldn’t wait. Thanks byeee says the nice lady on TikTok. But She read the instructions too. Now there is a bird outside. It’s singing. I remember now.
Pilgrims We’re just English people Did they get here and think Oh fuck Why did I bother This coast is the ocean Now I want to go back But I can’t It’s the same sand I tell myself The same grass We brought a Rowan tree The witch tree grows One day it will be tall I still want to go back Even if it is the same coast The same sand The same ocean I keep repeating I can see into the future And the tree will grow And the land will shrink Under the weight of people They made us come here to escape being under the yoke of royalty But I watch them build their own Gold thread only holds so much ocean water
We’ve all become programmers Coders Or maybe we always were And this is just another step The formula The meet cute The repeat before commercial break Which allows a run to the kitchen For advertised snacks Ding goes the microwave A release Like the gong calling to the prison yard for exercise And we’re back I work in publishing she said Where the point is to make money How tiresome any philosophy is. Like road works on the way to the bank Will she always gaze at her paycheck in wonder Willing it to grow larger And in her own consequence By formula?