LINKS AND BREAKS (a.k.a. An Over Analytical Mind Speaks Out)

Why? What are you thinking of when you do that? Pull out the chair like that? I see you're sitting down, I suppose it's because you're tired. Tired and conditioned. Not that social conditioning is necessarily a bad thing, we're all vulnerable to it, guilty of it. It's a poison in the sky.

            But why? Why is that? Why did I pick that particular metaphor? Now I'm wondering about poison, how it floats in the air sometimes. Contagion. I like etymology but I've only just picked it up. It...stimulates me. I'll have a go anyway.

            Contagion: sounds like contain, like containing everyone, everything. I hear age in there too so I'm guessing that means it lasts a spell. And gion - John? Join? Brings us together. In the sickness.

            This is fun, this works. Let's do condition too. Con - problem. Dish - container. Contain again, meaning everyone. Tion. A corruption of 'gion' or maybe the purest form of the word? Either way, it means all together again.

            I'll stop now. Stop. The word ends itself. Plosive, right? I remember that. I love that.

            You see, things get smaller and smaller. And smaller and smaller. First I trim for fun then I cut out of pure curiosity and then I'm just hacking away. Hacking like mad, slashing, sculpting. I get so close but then I cross my eyes too much and realise how far down I've gotten. I pull away because I'm scared. I'm only a child.

            But like a child I can't stay away for very long. There are questions that need to be investigated, questions so tiny they're dots in the dark. Yes, that's halfway decent. They're pin pricks. No wait, they're dots. You can't say much about a dot.

            I try to speak but not too much. Too much thinking sets the ball off. Not a ball, a big rolling splodge that goes all over the place, then straight down. It trickles down. Tricky down.

            Who decides what a trick is? How do you know? Is it anything but the truth? Can people be tricks? I've always pursued this. Tricks. Try. Icks.  Trying for icks and other sounds. Hurt sounds. Tricky sounds.

            Now why did you just do that? You folded your arms. What is it like to have arms to fold? Legs to cross? I have arms, I have legs, I cross and I fold but what about you? Enjoy it? Don't take it personally, all things baffle me. My eyes, my brain baffle me most. They show me links and breaks and they themselves are just links and breaks.

            The universe lunges at me. I shrink and shrink and shrink again because nothing can cover me, not if I consider it. Instead I think of the words.

            Baffle. Bafflement. Baf into bath. Fle into full. Ment into meant into meaning. The bath is filled with meaning. The container.

TUTTE E CYBORG (a.k.a. I'm Bound to Have Got the Italian Wrong. And/Or the Science. Be Kind.)

THE product recall details hit Rome days after the meltdowns started.

Over eight billion Braccio models had already been shipped and distributed all across Italy before the initial bug reports had even been properly processed. Damian Montague made the majority of the obligatory company phone calls himself, specifying that eighteen corporate heads would soon roll.

Whilst he was waiting to be put through to the numerous appropriate channels, the Braccio models had already been activated and were in use. The latest in prosthetic technology, all that was needed to operate the machine was a living human brain.

Users of the technology started experiencing faults on Tuesday 23rd April at 11am exactly. This included mysterious clicking noises and an overwhelming compulsion to cough. By 1pm, users suffered overheating and involuntary fist clenching spasms. Complaints quickly flooded into the Braccio Production Headquarters in the south of Rome. Damian Montague was away from the office at this time, dealing with other contracts overseas.

Nevertheless the details were collated and sent through to the R&D department for immediate testing. By 3pm it was confirmed that the Braccio models were melting down due to two separate circuits that magnetically interfered with one another. They predicted that all activated models would meltdown within the next hour, burning users and perhaps even breaking their bones.

On hearing this, Montague devoted all company resources towards creating and distributing safety warnings. The sheer volume of warnings going out caused the entire company server to crash. The computers were back up and running an hour later but it was of course too late.

Four million shoulder blades received third degree burns and significant bruising. Forty thousand pelvic bones were shattered. Fourteen thousand brains were fatally burnt.

As soon as the details came through, Montague switched company focus towards sending apologies to politicians and condolences to grieving families. He fired half of his R&D staff shortly thereafter.

A week later, just under eight billion Braccio models were shipped back to Rome. Montague returned to his office and spent the following eight months dealing with lawsuits and various other legal proceedings. A candlelit vigil was held in what was once the Vatican on Monday 29th April. It was the first candlelit vigil held in 440 years.

JEAN PIAGET HAD A TUGBOAT (a.k.a. He Probably Didn't)

Jean Piaget had a tugboat and, on it, a thousand soggy blankets. His net was so exhausted it told him so.
'Jean,' it groaned, 'No more fishing. I'm tearing apart as it is.'
Piaget turned to the net. 'Who wears the hat?'
'You. You own it.'
'And who holds aloft the spectacles?'
'You just did, Jean.'
Piaget slid them back up his nose and gripped the wheel again. 'Thank you for your honesty. Would you like one toot or two?'
'Two.' the net said, flapping open.
'I agree,' Piaget muttered, 'There look to be mountains up ahead.'

CLOUDING UP ON DAISY STREET (a.k.a. A Soggy Vignette)

The twelve o'clock bus is showing me something.

A shapely droplet slides from the eye of the man in the Travel Pass poster. He is smiling for the advert but now I'm not so certain.

I follow the level of his stare to a window on the opposite side. The pane's become foggy but I can still look out from the right hand corner. A sign says Daisy Street.

I think maybe he kissed a Daisy once, this Travel Pass poster man. He's probably met this crossing a few times before. There's a faultless alignment between him and the sign.

It breaks and I finally lose interest. The bus turns the corner and the drip slips down to the tagline.

Mine is the next stop.

SOMEWHERE HERE, THERE WERE (a.k.a. A Little Anagram Poem)

Somewhere,
where some
whose mere
heroes mew
whore, seem
worse. He, me,
we rose hem
somewhere.

TOOTH, PAST (a.k.a. A Poem about Anthropomorphic Chompers)

I am the flying molar.
I am The Original Flying Molar.
I have no idea where this trajectory
is taking me
but at least I'm not an incisor.
I'd shout it from the roof of the mouth
if I could
AT LEAST I'M NOT AN INCISOR.

Incisors are alright growing up
but then they grow up into right bastards:
pushing to the front,
taking the first cut.
We were fine in the gums but then
the personalities formed
and there was a reshuffle.
Ambitious Incisors,
skulking Canines
and, of course, us:
the final grinders.

I was one of the best,
I was in the middle,
I got the biggest cut,
I got the lay of the tongue.
I remember one time
I cracked a lollipop,
I cracked it for the satisfaction.
My other half was on the bottom
but we touched,
we ground it together.
We ground together.

I'll never see my other half again.
I'll never crush through the barriers
to meet,
to get the job done.
I'll never be washed
knowing we'll both be washed,
kissing through the brushstrokes.
That was the way we shared.
In my life I've been yellow
and white
and grey
and all other shades of vulnerable
but compared to this...

I've never flown either but
is this flying?
I see the landing point,
it's bigger than I've ever seen and
I know I'll land on my back.
It looks soft
like a palate
or a tongue
only without all the
wetness.

To think, I'll never crush again.
To think, I'll never be chipped.
I think I'll make a sound now,
one last bite down.

That was too soft.

CHEEK (a.k.a. A Poem about a Real Life Event that Happened After a Dentist Appointment)

I saw a man
quite short,
red shirt,
evidently balding,
stood at the foot of a hill.
He was pelvic thrusting.

He was dancing
or else being pushed around
by the kind of music
that intrudes on an open street.

Up close his face was bruised.
He shook his hips.

He shouted 'I wouldn't hurt anyone.'
and told me how someone had broken his cheekbone in three places.
I asked 'Did you get him back?'
he said 'I wouldn't hurt anybody.'

It was sunny then.