Sometimes, us pictographic types get burnt out with, you guessed it, pictures.
It’s everywhere.
Billboards.
Instagram.
Films. Which are moving pictures, at 24 (still) frames per second.
Phones.
Tonnes and tonnes. Of pixels, of pictures.
Pixels.
Micro-dotty things that compose a bigger wider, more pixelised picture.
Maddening.
What do you do with those?
These little mind garbage…. the things your mind throws up?
Do people recycle them, or buy one big
island to dump them in?
Or just tolerate them — just as we do-and decide, that
maybe, one day they won’t be as bad — and won’t be as loved, and remembered and useful, and chaotic, but will actually be regarded
with unLouped eyes,
Amazing.
Anyway.
Well. There’s the dream.
In that space where nocturnal
Pitter patter happens.
Not from the rain,
Not in the hot tin roof,
Not on summers when
The palm trees sway
In the golden sunlight.
Not when the cold air
Saves us from the stifle.
I feel that tug,
When I remember
Things gone by.
And realise,
That my
Brain
Just saved
Me from a
Heart
Attack.
— 4/ Jan/ 2023
