Archive for tech

The Secret to Shopping Successfully

Posted in poetry with tags , , , , on March 4, 2018 by malartart

Look, it’s like an open letterbox down there.

Little seen. Much heard.

Never say never to an immediate neighbour.

You may need them when the curtains draw in.

They are next door and the door next to us; and I am in-between.

Or so it may seem.

Trapped in my own stressful dressing present; boxed in a flattened out inscrutable cube, with an invisible bow on top; tied up by tights, socks shoved in my mouth so I do not scream about fashion— I blame the media of course, they expect us to march like army ants around the buzz of an Industrial flag that waves justly about low, low prices.

Does this wardrobe sit well with me? Is this a look that will stand up to scrutiny?

No legs and all feet, you move with ease within your own tiny dance floor; but how am I going to get home if I can’t find a taxi small enough to fit in this space just built for you and me?

Hidden chic, more combustible in the face of. I do not care if I am seen as a warlord, or fashion horse, as long as they don’t want to ride me raw and leave me outside in the paddock to dry out.

I remember you in lesser days, cooking badly, the ingredients: human hair and fingernails. Now you’re seeing stars but you’re certainly in no gutter. We both look back at those days in the changing rooms fondly, yet at the time we were naked, vulnerable, and nothing seemed to fit. And you have a family of your own…

They don’t move, yet they are dancing, twinkle toes.

There are no images, yet they are, shutterbug.

Or another way to look at it is to see it as nothing but a roll of film and some quick sketches

Protagonist: Do you spin like a ballerina? Do your eagle eyes move like a soldier’s? Do you feel boxed in? Do you feel boxed in? Do—you—feel—

                                                                          boxed – in? Are you claustrophobic? Is there room to swing a cat? I’m so sick and tired and stressed, I feel like I’m shitting kittens…

Antagonist: This place has gone to the dogs; if we’re going to live here I’m afraid a lot of your clothes are just going to have to go. Do you even wear half of this stuff?… the yellow one, the skirt, that’s still got its label on; this is ridiculous.

Supporting character: Look Ma, if I lie on the floor I can see the lady’s feet next door…I can see her… is that a dirty word?… KNICKERS? At school my friends laugh and the teachers tell me off…so, is it a dirty word…and what’s beneath? is that a dirty word as well, a dirty word beneath a dirty word?

The measure of a man is not how he died but how he lived.

The measure of a woman is 37.5 inches around the waist.

Fittingly, these moments don’t quite fit together.

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Tired & At ’em

Posted in poetry with tags , , , on June 18, 2017 by malartart

even though it’s a lonely road, there’s still houses and cars

homes as lit cages, road rages, watch the traffic pass

hold your breath and pass out after every single life-form

magazine subscription paid for in advance

                              up to date as of tomorrow

december on the cover, manipulated, you’re everybody’s twin

I recognise you even though they’ve taken a couple of blemishes away

burnt off so-called fat and then being placed in a new-born’s cot

making a hatched chick look at their cracked shell in the mirror

whether its good for its mental well being or not

Or

Put another way

What they put in

Is

What you cut out

So

Take a scalpel

And

Remove your lungs

Forgive yourself for smoking

And

Take up drinking instead

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