No Flying Tonight

She stands on the tips of her toes
Feeling the muscle stretch
Reaching up, but her nails hardly
Breech the air

She lets them drop
Slowly
Back to the side of her loose gown
And like a well lubricated
Machine the gears in her feet
Turn until they rest firm on the ground.

Outside
Down a carpeted hall
Lights and shadows flicker
On beige walls
They don't make pictures.

She pulls back the thick bed covers
The cool sheets appear
Tonight they are clean,
She slivers into bed
Her head engulfed in the pillow
Her dreams smothered between bed
And blanket.

She whispers silently to the darkness:
"No flying tonight."

Documents

In our recent line up of poems I thought it was about time I put up an existential poem about documents...what can I say I hope you enjoy it :)

DOCUMENTS

Documents have personality
They have smiles
Strange ones hidden in plain sight
They have less meaning than they say
They don't like to say anything too plain
They're a bit self conscious
They're born a bit different to us
Printed and then very soon after
Touched and handled
Therebare document that are safe and happy in folders with rings
Some are torn in frustration
Some are ripped carelessly
Some are even stepped on and their
Beautiful whiteness is muddied
Unfortunate ones are bound
Striking holes in their flesh
So that we might better read them
Smothered between plastic and cardboard
They do not have eyes or feet
They don't need them
We do
We use them daily
We use their words and we use them
Because they feel nice and proper in our hands
They catch the sweat of nerves
They carry our nerves as we gouge ink marks into them
we feel relief to bin then and forget they exist
The thing is so many personalities get twisted and reknitted because they do not die
As we destroy the old so a new is born
So I'm told
The pulp soup of millions congeals into a whole so that they are reborn
Somehow then they are invincible
Yet they are also chained to us
We are their gods
And yet they overwhelm us
Occupying space time and thoughts until it seems we can't live without them as much as we created them
We carry them in cages of iron
We build temples to them or in order to forget them
When they get older dusty beards form
Slowly the pages rot as with all things
They are used and tossed aside
They are enthroned and abused
They live and die.

Born to Index

I wrote this some time back...ie weeks in Josh speak. And yes my current occupation involves a lot of paper and pages. It also involves many an index.

What can I say boredom drives men to write strange things. And as for the humble index...gotta love it.

Born to Index

I was born to index

Don't need no tables
Don't need no briefs
I got me a glossary
Between them tabbed sheets
But there's more than tabs
And postits
More than annexures too
More than those substantive things
The big boys are paid to do

Gotta have an index
God dam I was born to index
Abc 1 to Z

We dont write
We don't type
We be drafting
And we be laughing

Nothing worse than
Disorganization
What's behind tab 12Z capital A capital J?

Ya gotta have an index
God Dam I was born to index
Abc 1 to Z

Where's that document
You know the long one
With author A kent
Oh right I see where did you say it all
Was contained ?

It's in the index
God Dam I was born to index

I'm sorry

"I'm sorry" two words
Vacant defensive
He pours whatever it is
Into the bowl
Because whatever it is
He's too frightened to care

Words scratch and tear
Her words always bite
In the least expected ways
They eat as well

There's no weapon no shield
No one else in the room
Where light shines but feels
The colder for it

Only
"I'm sorry"