Walrus werds

Do you live in a city of clocks?
Where you don’t need locks,
for all your mind is compressed
in the sound of tick tock tick tock.

Have you lived in a city of butter-
flies? Fluttering lies, sun-kissed
morning dew. Pretty dreams,
a bit fuzzy to me.

Some live in a city of machines,
where wheels grind and cogs
scream. Smog for dinner kids,
enjoy your shiny new toys.

Amongst a city of trees, we
find many pretty, pretty
leaves around autumn.
Mushrooms too, life is good.

In a city of ice, we don’t seek
to play nice, but instead gorge
ourselves on fish. Fish, fish, fish.
It’s a walrus’ favourite dish.

Among sunlit hills, in a city
of thrills, everyone’s asleep.
But only until night, when the
party starts again. A pity.
Such a nice day.

In the city of my mind, you
can find, several nooks, crooks
and dodos playing with mice.
Are you joining in? Welcome.

Look here, star-eyes.
In the dawning light, the moon dies.
Later, when we see the sun rise,
it is too late to tell more lies.
And all your little secrets and alibis,
will do nothing to stop your demise.
We can see clearly in the dark,
but the sun burns our eyes.

Coming, walking through a secret,
you can cut all ties to your soul.
Softly illuminating, a murmurous glow,
it is the embers dying in your
little hands. Dissipating, a slight bow,
you step forth – you have become foul.
And thus your being disbands.

Shattered, you are for naught.
Scream star-eyes, into the roaring fire,
it does not care one way or the other.
Though many have sought an answer,
it is not that which eludes them.
Merely the question, tainted with your lies,
a vessel for your desire,
listen now to the song and rise to aspire.

Look into the light, star-eyes. It may burn now,
but wait for a moment and you will see,
that it is only your sight that must flee.
Blink slowly,
tears running down your face and scream.
Your name you can redeem.
Bright-eyes, open your sight and see.
All that you can now be.

Look lively boys, the enemy is comin’ in.
Stealthily, like a sneakin’ shadow, they
appear out of nowhere, listening to their
shitty ‘pods, with their pretentiously
shitty music, flaggin’ their shitty sense
of self-importance. Look to your left,
this will make no sense at all. But see,
roses, now slightly past their prime.
But that is the way of flowers, not to
mention the oranges next to them.
Slightly mushy, I’d dare say. Well, maybe
someone will still eat them, otherwise
they will die in a landfill somewhere far
away. Allergic to the bastards, the walrus
is, while not lookin’ for a reasonable thing
to write about, this post goes out to all my
little Saturday lazy gnomes watching all
‘em pokémon in the tall grass. Rustlin’ now
the sound of snow collapsin’ under its own
weight. A blue moment draws near. The
light already fadin’ for the day. Lookin’ at
the screen, you can see dimly lit faces in
the distance, soundin’ and echoin’ the
life that is fadin’. Startin’ to look deeper,
you only see small electric fish flicker on
and off in the white pool. Use a rope, start
a fire, tonight we dine on chicken.
Many days ago, it seemed so clear, but
now it has become only a risin’ crescendo
of small sounds from afar. Hoisted like a
budgerigar on top a stack of blocks, each
havin’ the complexity of a thousand suns.
Rest peacefully sweet light, for the dark
crawls over the land, bringin’ with it a
bitter chill and the snow muffles all voices.

Hello. Goodbye. Until we meet again.

Dusk fairy, dawn – dance.
See the flame flutter,
part your veil, longingly
drink the mist of the stars.

Play with glen goblins dance,
jump stuttering steps, two
bodies moving in starlight.
Music drifts away, now far.

Giggle in wet grass, move
slowly this moment will
soon pass. But not yet,
hold out your hand,
there is still fey wine left.

A band of gnomes
wander past, we offer
up a toast. In
exchange we
get their
boasts.

Small green hats
come off. They
tell tall tales
of days now
long gone.

Have you
yet
heard?

There was a
gnomish king.
He held onto
many a thing and
loved to dance.

His fey would prance,
crickets play the violin.
Soft starlight aglow.

Soft, soft music plays now
low, an otter sings by
the river, a washing its
paws, it drinks the moon
its pale face a grin. Laughter.

Rock spirits start to sing, and
the king enters the ring,
wielding a rosen staff, golden
light filling goblets with fey-
wine. Let the dance begin!

Creatures of all sorts emerge from
the trees and from underground.
Small and big, silver, gold sing:
here come the dwarves. Fey and
trolls. Spirits and small things:
fairies, wisps, a few ghosts; raise the king a toast.

Dusk fairy, dawn – dance. A soft touch,
a little romance. Warm glow, fey wine.
Giggle in the wet grass, a warm morning rain.

You wake up struggling. You get your feet out of bed, the rest of you will soon follow. Welcome to your suffering.

Make your way down the hall, chew on something remotely edible. The day has begun. Give a holler, give a call – try to stop that taxi.

Once at the office, you suddenly feel the urge to flee. Those are not the walls you know, that is not the elevator you take every day – no! It is a death trap, a cleverly laid ruse.

Breath slowly. Don’t let the other see your anxiety. Relax. The music is playing. People are sweating.  Ding; means it’s time to get off.

Moving like prey, you dart from cover to cover. Breath deep. Is that coffee you smell?
People are moving by the cooler, better move with the herd.

Finally, safe at your desk. The familiar stacks of paper grin at you mockingly.
This will be another late night. You sip your coffee. Your ulcer burns.

Better call the wife, tell her you’ll be late. What was that? Steps approaching.
Dear God no! Is it the boss?  Don’t let it be the boss!

Worse. It’s the Manager.  Dolled up like a peacock, ruby red tongue darting out of the mouth. Licking, tasting the air. Tasting and drinking deep of your fear. Your ulcer burns.

“Those reports on my desk, were insufficient. Fix them today and have me that other case
in by seven tomorrow morning. Oh and you have too many sick days, no more for this quarter.” The reptile slithers away, already spewing more poison down the corridor.

You finger a paperclip. Panic. Call the wife, call your therapist? Call mom? No wait, she’s dead. Call the union? Hah, you’re not in one, dumb-ass.

You can hear the walls laughing at you in the cafeteria. You have a sandwich and more coffee to go. No time to eat. But no eating at your desk – company rules. You sneak a bit now and then, when no one is looking. Your ulcer is making your stomach turn.

More coffee at the water cooler. Nervous gazes all around. David was fired last week. The herd is still restless. Quarter report going in soon. The CFO wants more heads cut…

You suffer both diarrhoea and constipation at the same time. Is this even possible? Feels like your pulse is somewhere near the rooftop. Maybe just one more coffee.

Phone beeps, it’s the wife. You don’t dare answer. Bile is building up in your mouth. Another missed dinner. Another step closer to divorce. She doesn’t even yell any more.

The lights start going off. People are leaving. You haven’t even bothered gazing at the clock for hours. Still more to write. More. More. More…

You write something down on a piece of paper. Close the computer. Walk out in a haze. Get in the car. Drive home. Run a red light, veer lane. Your eyes burn, but you see nothing.

The next morning. Someone cleans your desk. Picks up a piece of paper and reads.

‎”Once the paperwork is done and all the fires have gone out; you sit alone under your umbrella and cry for a little bit of rain; to wash your face, to sooth your tongue, to cool the land and to make you become undone.”

Shrugs, tosses it in the trash and continues taking away your things. Someone else will sit here tomorrow. You won’t have to any more.

O’ politico,
a fantastico
opportunity
to change
the world.
And o’ my
little bella
bambinas
thinking we
can change
the world
around us
with as little
as a vote
cast for one
or the other
fool. We are
all tools.
O’ politico,
you fantastico
chance for us
all to feel a
little better
about our-
selves, without
a need to see
how little
we have
actually,
really, in the
end changed
the world.
O’ politico,
you fantastico
elephant in
the middle of
us all.
See it or not.
It will still shit
on all your
furniture.
Have a nice
day y’all.