Being

Trapped, or not,
Behind glass, behind reality,
Still as stone, frozen like fine art
against a darkened backdrop,
Skeletal, corpse-like,
alive.

Surrounded, or not,
Darkness consuming, coldness embalming,
I become a jigsaw of skin
and bone, my thorax, my throat,
constrained, clogged by darkness, by glass,
again.

Like stone I crumble,
Like glass I am smashed,
My body is seized up but
broken, in pieces,
Stuck in time, I stand
Alone.

BoyZ

The glory days
of arcade, girls and boys just children playing together,
are gone,
replaced by the curse of masculine toxicity
ravaging the cybernetic innocence
of pixels, of cyberspaces,

of having a good time online.

Creativity

Maybe it’s just like that.
Maybe it’s just a pot of paint knocked over by a giddy dog in a squeaky clean new house, watch the paint seep through the upstairs floorboards and down the downstairs walls, watch it stain that new magnolia carpet in the lounge a brilliant yellow, bright and jolly like a sunflower on a hot summer’s day, prideful canary shade.
Maybe it’s just the dropping of a freshly-made freshly-bought ice cream, with cream slinking away from its source, leaving the cone all alone and confused. Watch the cream run away into the waiting arms of a grate, the remnants staining your new blue shoes a sickly sticky vanilla hue. Watch it stain. Watch it run.
Maybe that’s creativity.