Rewirings

"Doctor Chaucer, the robot needs you in the emergency unit."

The many footsteps that reverberated throughout the corridor got closer and closer to me.

It was a group of Fixers, claiming to be of the best assistance to me, or that they will be.

I pushed them aside and told them, "He only needs a jolt. I don't need any help."

It was a hospital that housed all types of sentience.

The robots and the humans were sitting side-by-side in the waiting room.

Medicine was a field that went beyond organic beings, but now involved the study of any one with a consciousness.

Basic robot anatomy. Human heartbeats. Robot rotors. Every med student needed to learn the basics of both.

I was a Fixer. A colloquialism to refer to Robot Specialists.

I walked into the emergency unit, expecting it to be empty. But 'lo, a man was sitting by the side of the Robot, holding his hand with his right hand, although the other hand busied itself playing with his hair.

"Both of these people look like they need some serious rewiring", I thought.

Paper Flames

There is a silent harm emanating from those disarmed,
Tracing jet-streams to the monocle of the Man alarmed,
Shooting blanks into the caverns of what once was charmed,
Fields lay unfarmed.

I can't make you love me, Mr. Love Me,
I can't make you stay. When the sphygmomanometer grabs you like the octopus of assistance you suckled your pathetic alien mouth on.
Long gone yesterday

I creep into the crevices of the atoned,
On my own, burying bones.

Destroy the man in khakis,
Later on the man in jammies,
Of empty words,
And loud refrains,
Come hither to these paper flames.

Send the messenger into a pit of cuss,
Or better yet invite them all with lust,
There is a hole they'd like to fill,
With angry men on madder pills.

Fucking snakes, fucking snakes, fucking snakes, fucking snakes, fucking snakes, fucking snakes

Extra, extra READ ALL ABOUT..

Let's gather round the sewing ring,
A thousand echoes of a thousand things,
Of people who can't listen to anything,
But the sound of the midget in'em,
Fidgeting.

Of newer oldies,
And moneyed shame,
Come hither to these paper flames.

Lying about Lying about Lying about Lying

I lie on the marble floor, thinking about words and what to do if they decide to haunt me in my sleep. What to do if what I hold inside suddenly decides to speak to me.

That all I am, all I ever smile about, and all I ever cringe at, becomes the many shells of which I become a shroud.

And then I think of chameleons. I think of it changing colour. I think of how people think they do it to adapt to their surroundings, when half of the time, it's merely a reflection of how they feel.

They're not teenagers trying to be part of the cool clique. They are reptilian beacons.

They're the guys who can't hide their "happy"

And the fair who can't hide their cheeks when it's coloured cherry.

You are...

Your sense of humour,
The reason why morning is a misnomer.

How can I possibly be mourning this morning,
When jokes about calamities,
And laughs about atrocities ,
Make me giggle when I'm yawning.

Because I just woke up.

Not because you're...

Boring into my soul, like a piledriver,
That British singers croon about,

When they're not singing about sleepy towns,
Or whores,
Or when attractive mothers of which you have an affection,
An American exception.

When vampires go out on a weekend,
And colloquial slur becomes the new trend,
A colloquial slur that makes things clurr, (I mean, clearer)
A colloquial slur I've never said before in ways sincerer ,
Before I...

Met you, I haven't even,

Confined by walls that call us heathen,

"Do you wanna go to hell?", they enquire,
And you mock them with your love of fire.

Lie. Coz that's what the word sounds like if your name was abbreviated. Simplified.
Some are pronounced "Lee", Unfortunately.

They call it a suffix
The suffix in Helplessly, Hopelessly, Inevitably, Early, Daily, Nightly, Sweetly, Madly, Hilariously,
But I don't want you to be put Simply,
Really.

I want your many skins. And no that wasn't a fat joke stint.

I wanna be..

The company in your sleepwalking dreams, the antiseptic to the cuts you wake up to on your skin.

I'll hurt you too, there's no doubt,
But only like the occasional cigarettes that you'll eventually put out.

I want the space-time fabric your atom leaves as time in letters and sentences passes.
Past tense, present tense, future tense, mildly tense, intense, pretence, sometimes not tense at all.
Your Aderall, your thoughts like trippy coloured bubbles in a painting, possibly by Chagall.

I wanna hold your hand better than any 60's hit,
I wanna make the cogs in your heart spin a thousand revolutions per minute,

Like how much I think about revolutions per minute,

Like the thrill of kleptomania in a small homeless street kid,
The way a toxic mind doesn't quit,
The way you make me smile like you did.

This is probably not R & B at its best,
A very Jewish attempt at being Mr. West.

Or maybe just to be your glasses,
And to be the lens you talk about when you're in your classes.

Coz then I'd be with you,

And literally,

Everything else will just be scenery.

Wait For Me, Melancholy.

He draws, but he's not a drawer,
Just clutter within him, no shelves for his thoughts of any weather.

He treads in ink, his footsteps are his keystrokes, his guitar strings,

For nothing else about him, around him, seems to be moving.

He is empty,
Like a hole in the ground,
Even if the stars are still visible from down below,
Still to be found.

He is my past,
He is the friend I threw down a rope to, a rope he grabbed onto at last.

This is not a story of a climb,
Nor a story of what's left behind.

This is a story of how I began to lose my mind,
After blinded by what I thought I'd find.

Fuck it. This is not a story.

"Right now, how you feel is how you feel,
Time will either change it to be better or worse,
But right now is right now,
And there is nothing wrong with now."