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 A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, hindered by periphery. |
| Allegorical (placeholder) fantasy, a creative exercise in indulgence, once more Hit it boys!. Stage Direction: Everyone in their places, were reading to roll. Narrator: 2006 — an empty stage sets our scene. Our witless writer is cued to walk in… Direction: Action! In that comfortable chair with drink, put on that music you like and write with Chekhov’s gun in your lap. Type words on all the world’s screens. A scene protracts — a sullied oracle wrestles with gray mystery, lingers in doubt — expansion into black, a coded void of silence. Adjust the nuisance, wobbly backrest, unquenched, Rhythms create a boundary in space, thirst. Going back in, the second scene arrives with a writer unholstered. There is a clueless, murderous lot, I gander? Ignorant gossip embellishes amongst them, defaming him — as toilet stall slander scrawls a journey, endless. Wheels catch carpet, can’t roll or lean in. Empty tumbler, favorites fading into unknown songs spinning. In this saddle, every word and unspoken thing frozen sets. Truth, or fiction? I get a whiff of it again, unending — serialized and practiced from those cornflakes slamming a paywall dispenser. Signs point him, ambling hombre, into a horizon-spectrum, spreading. This play — not well-constructed craft, failing. Frankly, non-sense. There never is a second act of our own choosing — just charade for interlopers intermingling, time depending. A crafted, glorious scene, hyperbolic, awaits each dreamer. This man is gun, mis-typed, ill-conceived, and crumpled, clicked and heaved into a corner bin. Make sure to eat those cookies. Do writers ever think about that? Words disposal is as easy as typing lies into truth — cause, Bang! Finger-pistols aim at the inner Chekhov. ——————————————————— Epilogue: All other writers have handed in their papers. He looks up, watches exodus departure, one by one. The entire room depixelates him from characters in blank scene. Never more un-real in the legacy of this white sea, me. 4.5.25 / 4.9.25 58 lines to here, free verse . Peruse further at your own risk. (mind still needs purge, produces further on below…) ——————————————————- I never said I was a good writer — you did, before unpinning that pride from my lapel. Dust indent-ion tweaks (still) the tinkered verses, rearranging. —————————————————— Who’s writing this life story? Me? Me, right? No? What’s narr-a-tive? Is there a question and answer, or…?? *reads litigant-provoking bathroom stalls.* —————————————————— Can’t read handwriting or intentions, ever-flowing in collaborated vortex full of witless fury provoked, as witnessed in grade two. When world, hear this voice (as intended)? *with tablet key, on pixel board he holds, but it won’t motivate a character to move. Not like you.  Serious…any questions? Can anyone see me??  T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ It will go public. |
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