terça-feira, 29 de setembro de 2026

Orb weaver's deal

 An orb weaver’s deal in the frame.


A picture frame jutted out of the tangled mass of hoses, mechanical parts, pieces of a leather sofa.
Within its chiseled wooden square an orbweaver dropped down toward the middle of the frame and thus started to weave its web. Dancing between the uprights hooking its next line.
Some hours later when the design took form and there was that enigmatic pattern, the mist fell.
Clouds broke.
The morning sunlight beam lit it all up.
No one saw the spider curse as autumn flies spotted the lines and avoided them.
The beautiful symmetry was obvious in the light.
It stood out like an omen, like a vertical crop circle.
And flying things avoided it, yet come dusk and with it the accumulated warmth of an early autumn day, the air around the landfill would be humming with the wings of desperate insects commuting between the unfamiliar expanse of refuse and the nearby coastal marshes.

And so it was and thus the first mosquito darted directly into the web as soon as the afternoon light dwindled. The orb weaver so sensitive with its tactile feedback and skilled with its pounce and the inevitable follow through of its horrid bite.
Before it could tie the hapless blood sucker to the overhanging bridge of the frame a flying termite came in clumsily.
The spider liked neither the after taste nor the careless flight of the creature and ate it more out of spite than enjoyment.
At least the thing was easily wrapped up and would keep longer than some insects.

A pair of mosquitos came through in their mating flight, getting wrapped up inside the strands. They didn’t seem to notice the monster bearing down on them. And before they were through they were sewn up with the other two hapless ones.

After that it was mostly moths and a few beatles, but their thick wings allowed them to make tactical escapes. The moths were the orbs least favorite. Dusty crabby wings, and a tiny body with barely any sustenance on it whatsoever.
Their flapping also bothered the Orb. He left more than one of the moths in the web, for which he swore to rebuild after the bulldozers came.
Leaving his very own trash behind, a web with the unwanted victims of the night before, still attempting to flap out of their spider web cocoons.
Yes that indeed entertained the Orb.
After he had digested the mosquitos and the silly termite, he kneel on all eight and pray the the frame stay in it’s position.
Jutting out from the debris, allowing him to spin his home, his sigil, his sacred trap and dining table once again.


Mechanical man

 Electric antenna HR's deity at play
Rocking arms and wheels company segway
Inspiration hyped and professional frustrate
Chain and web and logistic wednesdays

Kpis and aims and goals quarter fitting
demands and constraints and deadline metal
expedient charisma wildly formal yet sassy
Dreams are born then severed into sashimi

The gears and pistons and Pneumatic tubes
Keep the C levels in lux and the noobs in lube

The red ghost of me

How I trickle
fumble and tickle
the hair turning red
The man of me mad

 Embark onto the pavement
Broken city all okay
My masculinity snake like
slithering up the cracks in the pavement

Know me by another name
lost and hopeless
Found and godlike

Peeling back the clouds
Just to find their lightning
Extract the strom
From their inevitable storm

Embark on the wayside
Hairy and sasquatch like
Hostile and warlock like

Eyes as these
See what you hide
Eyes like these, now lo
get to know you inside

Endless thread of disquiet

 I couldn't guess what they were trying to do
It's a life, a machine
get a grip
fidgeting with some small object

anxiety such a gift
tapping in and out of
Hey drone agitation
I can see your new hobby

On a thread on a screen in some pent up implication
That reads under the title
I can see the shape of the attempt
Life is a rush you want to disprove something

Sit with yourself restless and unable to just to be
Influenced by the live wires and pre tweeking teens
coming up and splashing their half truths and dreads
All across the little reality they hope you'll check

Golden stork

 The feathers have grown
The bird is magnificient
The baby cries through the wall
The beak extends over years

The plummage is majestic
The grace of the bird
The pain in the infant
Soon flight will be expected

Night is dry morning humid
Eyes imitate
The bird spreads it's wings
Falling off the rail

Taking the upwind into the sky
Golden feathers
Gone into the sunrise
Gone from our observation

segunda-feira, 28 de setembro de 2026

Encroaching and disobeying

 Outside the fence
Poking pines
stinking eucalypts
Trees and undergrowth conceal me

Pull a cigarette from pack
Time has no authority
The bell will go
 but we will stay 

Duties have no authority 
Strict voices calling people
Angry at broken boundaries
Poorly maintained fences

Need dark shade
Or direct light
Just not the greys
Just not twilight

A place where rules massage obedience
Into believing structure is safety
Yet even the air itself disobeys
Fast-growing exotic trees pushing through boundaries

I light the cigarette
Smoke flows and fluffs across the fence
Voice fades behind me giving up
The man connected to it is gone

Undesirable pariahs emerge from the undergrowth
Wary and troublesome souls
Slipped beyond the limits and structure
I draw smoke into my lungs and exhale

For a moment the fence shrinks
Branches scrape against its wire
The stragglers disappear between the trees
And the voice has no volume to warn us

Colorless veil and bad coffee

 My coffee tasted like shit this morning
Age had been yelling at me 
From the moment I woke
To this current sentence I'm struggling to throw on the eye

Tasteless boring coffee and no expression to the back garden morning light
My dog looked up with pity in his eyes or atleast thats what I chose to see
My energy plateaus bleakness slowly manifests like a big colorless veil
It tells me about my past like it can read into my mind and it's memories

It doesn't jeer or taunt, it just matter of factly reiterates the disappointment
It lays down the situation and the acidic aftertaste of the coffee stings the mouth
I do not try to diminish or deny the elaborations of the colorless veil
Infact I have to strain my brow to be bothered at all

Despite the growing apathy and sense of stinking staleness a sense a slight optimism
For if all those years contained the most daunting and abject desolation
Then surely tomorrow was going to shine super brightly in comparison
That is if I was seeking the difference and not the familiarity