Absolutely Miles Away …too many clouds, too little time…

gluts of interruptery

hello once again, dear reader.

i am sorry if this site has not been here recently. there have been, and may continue to be, “issues” with certain bits falling off, going for a walk and forgetting to come back. this is definitely not intentional, and i’m sure with the passage of time, the correct sequence of 0s and 1s shall be reclaimed, plopped in its rightful place in these ears of internetacular corn, and be put free to wave about a bit in the sun. that is, of course, until a big combine harvester pootles along and turns that corn-ear freedom into mushyness.

Um, yes.

Service (if you can call it that – i remain unconvinced that this is a service of words and pictures and strangeness) may be a little up in the air for a while, but shall hopefully be resumed shortly, soonly and promptly!

in the meantime, Absolutely Miles Away would heartily suggest a cup of tea, some interesting music and a dialogue in monologue…


shoreside, two

amidst another bed of pummelled shells
the hours passed as grains and sands before
simply slipped; there was no grip to the past.
send your thoughts by wavelicked surf on shore.

must we always find our thoughts entwined at the point where whisps of being converge?


oversight

maybe there’ll never again be
another perfect sunrise gazed upon by tired eyes
maybe these thoughts should see
a notion that these entities might not quite be real
but the product of a percussively detailed dream
a squashed mesh in which this city lies, entangled
enraptured
caught in real seconds
and those touched by shuddering disbelief.

trapped on a shifting sand between two lands
unsure of why or where or how to belong
as voices force future forgetfulness
have you known the answer all along?

take my hand; we can pass through this mirror
a journey to an impossible destination
when plate glass succumbs to versatile volatility
it is polite only to oblige, and fall in languid sublimation.


Humansong

Trying to push the boundaries of what might be real, between fingers and palms held into the air.  May this exist?  Is possibility just a slip away, a slip further than the sight of your stare?  Without an piercingly sharp field of vision, the world seems muted, just an indication of what could exist if only one could open eyes and reach for unblinkered daylight, minus mist.

There are times, of course, when it is easier to fall amidst the dazingly dozed, floundering in faraway forcefields, in this space where lines blur, shapes shift and the air just beyond grasping takes on a more ethereal edge.

As my eyes dart from one shape and shadow to another, the radioactive sounds around start to spin and daze. A man in the atmosphere somewhere begins upon his tireless quest of shovelling gravel at windows.  He hopes that this action will dislodge the stains of hundreds of thousands of raindrops spat from the sky, restoring the once pristine glaze, scratch by scratch.  One can only etch so much.  He retires inside, a slight note of defeat moistening his brow, to greet the soon-come morning with fresh juice and the soft breeze of a citruslight touch.  Today, the sky will sigh, from tangerine greeting to grapefruit goodbye.

Further aloft, a group sit under rising sun, perched atop a roof, encircling the sole chair, covering the only chimneypot to be seen. Windows and brickwork hem in from every direction but facing upward from rooftipped slate provides their upward airscape.  They spent the dusken hours wisely.  Cloudwatching.  Maybe the sky might burst and tap drips onto the chimneypot to fall down to whichever lies beneath.  The weatherstained mock lid covering the chimney, the orange chair may temporarily halt the waterdrip descent, yet at some point it may give way into a vault of quiet nothing.  The watchers do not know, and cannot tell.  They hum their sleep chorus to drone and dispel.

Behind a supermarket, children, freed momentarily, jump and yell, walking aloft trolleylines and scatteringly casting each wheeled vehicle outwards, waywards, towards tarmac slopes and rattling caged oblivion.  Traps on wheels collide and sculpt twisted wireframe wildbeings, pronged into life by the zap of a passing electrical storm.  The voices have become shriller as they exude excitement, raising their note before scribbled secrets are found.  Over time, their noises dissipate into the lifelike quiet, as an old friend would.  Still there, but less noticed.  Wondering if they were really there at all.  Created or imagined.  The best place to be.  Not real.  Concealed.  A sight to feel.  A crest-tip wave at sea.

Worried about being seen, I tilt my head toward the below.  Find some more words to get lost in.  Doused liberally on lily pillows.  I’d wish that they could hear this, the humansong by every bird.  Yet for every word that writes its shape, fifty more wait to be heard.


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