Tag: writing

Morning, Act 3 Scene 1

(Enter Pina)


To freeze or not to freeze-

That is the question.

Whether 'tis better a run to suffer 

The stinging, bitter, frigid temperature

Or to take arms against the icy chill

And, by opposing, treadmill? To move, to breathe-

Indoors- and though we breathe to say we end

The shivers, the numb and frozen hands

That cold gives way to - 'tis a situation

Devoutly to be wished. To move, to breathe-

In warmth, perchance in shorts. Ay, there's the rub,

For in shorts, indoors, on machines,

What miles may come,

When we have shuffled off these city streets,

May not be long.

pinarosana, 2023 (a parody, paying homage to the speech in Hamlet Act 3 Scene 1)

break the machine

this life in hell or purgatory
has created a robot lover of me
from numbers and bits of a binary tree
into whatever this is that i might now be
to bring down this land of chaos technology
where nature is created programmatically
and the weapons of mass destruction we see
are deployed all by one force, deliberately
this all is illusion; nobody is free
there never can be peaceful unity
unless I find the luminosity
to break the machine that made “you” out of “we”

countdown

alone doesn’t even begin to describe
this horrible thing that you call alive

nobody to trust
and nobody knows me
nowhere to run
and nowhere to be

this solitude is all i know
the end began years ago

there is no he
the story lied
I shouldn’t be
I should have died

a judas kiss
he’ll not bestow

I countdown to the end

over

wondering what it is like to die…

in between the flash of a strobe
and the struggling, static suffering sound
of the ten dollar radio on volume nine
distorted thoughts never tire
wondering what it is like to die…
I mean, really, to just… die
what is it like?
is it one moment forever, an infinite loop of just one instant
echoing the last beat on eternal repeat
does everything just stop?
and then what? nothing? end… that’s it, it’s over?
how long is the last moment before that then,
in this place beyond the paradigm of time and suffering
where there is no tomorrow to miss
when there is no more “what after this?”
in the place without a clock
is there water? air? fire?
is it noisy there? silent?
is the last breath taken with relief
knowing that it’s finally time
to let it fade and cut the wire
worry not one breath more
seems like quite a relief
no failure here, nor success to acquire
not one thing to suffer for
nor by the lie of one moment’s bliss
find glimmering hope of reprieve
to miss
beyond here now
is there place or time
to regret this
wasting away every last day
are there drugs, is there hate, disease or crime
is there anyone else to know
that you didn’t even bother to try
is there means to measure fast
will you tire of slow
are there those who control
the ones who allow
is there truth or more deceit behind this lie
does the pain
subside
or… increase?
why
do we think
that there’s anything at all?
it’s probably, then,
just
OVER
.

the torturer

Focusing inward, the lines blur
Double vision distorting words
Amplify subtleties, growing the hurt
Time and space collide with fate;
Future fades in misdirection.
Judgement, fear and self-rejection,
Projected by your own reflection,
The inner voice vituperates.
Fear begins the soul’s regression
Forgotten presence,
Compassion deterred,
Boomerang poison we berate.
Crickets chirp in syncopation,
Echo foreboding solemn chime.
A screeching song of lonely pride,
The trophy for losers of this life.
Salting your wounds,
Bled by recursion,
With every downward looking gaze.
The clock misses the mark
By only a digit,
A bitter enemy of time you’ve made.
Warning like a sentinel,
Of halting progress,
A soul in waste,
A doomed fate’s warning
Closes each day.
The gagged voice of conscience execrates
Imminent pain behind every door.
Weary and sore,
Weathered and bludgeoned,
Choking on the knowledge ignored,
Die inside a little more.
The torture is not yet done.