My Photon Blues

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This life is long;
it draws me out,
and it folds me up
in reams of paper,
65-percent recycled.

It stains me with bumble
bee ink, ill little stinging
reminders of moments
piling over my head and
under my bared feet.

Half awake for days
in weeks, this is an
endless blink where those
bumble-bee stained images
are projected by blacklight
through my pale thin lids;
no blinds can fully shut out
her once buzzing stingers.

Compositing life’s long flickers,
fitted or unfitted or stacking
leaf layers on my shoulders,
I don’t have the chain mail,
my lovely lady lost now,
only flakes of our skin,
a closer set community than
we’ve ever achieved outside
dust layers under our feet or
dusty blue above our heads.

She’ll never insulate my bare
again. So there’s the rub,
our skin-like memory foam
forever shaped to a misfit
flashing and revolving in a
nearby galaxy.

I’m gonna staple chain links,
other’s false protection, into
my topographical moonscapes,
fleeting always farther out,
a useless expansion of self,
alone in the dust of other’s
skin.

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32 thoughts on “My Photon Blues

        1. Web-blow workflow,
          another day
          as master’s servant,
          our eyes spiking red,
          licking keys and
          planting rumours,
          sensing injections
          from the mist.

          Who’s thumb
          is on the plunger?
          Maybe no thumb,
          maybe no needle,
          just the misty love
          of our fear
          building
          ebbing
          flowing,
          always with
          the contagious
          echoes
          of our
          ethos.

      1. (I love yours! Wow my ADD mind wants to spin off in so many directions, whoever wants to add I think it’s okay =))

        Anaphylactic heart
        Asphyxiating, a closing fist
        Pumping, hysterical
        A viscous lust
        Dangerous beneath
        Pressing fingers
        Bee sting kiss
        A rod fueled
        With poison
        Altruistic
        Debasement
        Of the flesh
        A thorny message
        Blushing red

  1. This reminds me of a piece I painted called Mourning My Little Tragedies. Those bees stings will get you over time. Lovely, this is my favorite part:

    I’m gonna staple chain links,
    other’s false protection, into
    my topographical moonscapes,
    fleeting always farther out,
    a useless expansion of self,
    alone in the dust of other’s
    skin.

    1. The end is a blurry horizon, and my wings ingrown. Worlds collide at the beginning, crumble at the end, so none can say this piece is a piece. Wings are made up of such collides.

  2. I like the expression “bumble bee ink” to refer to the unseen memories and reminders of one’s life. There’s an added sound to it and image to how those things become a part of the narrator, not neatly but one imagines like bees, sometimes busily chaotic or just one that comes along and touches. Connecting it with the lost of a love, I find the second part full of sorrow through the actions and expressions used.Enjoyed and like this poem a lot.

  3. Great one. I like the feeling of tumbling down the steep path of life to realize at the bottom that there’s hope to pick yourself up in the end. Love hurts but its a necessary and inevitable part of life.

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