I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
Forms are nostalgic for smooth formlessness Art, craft, science: all impose; all demand Rude is the will that somethings nothingness
By D. J. Reddall2 years ago in Poets
If you were using your device to learn I would not hate it with such fierce resolve; If knowledge were not something one must earn
When did awkward become anathema? The cult of smooth has not always reigned thus; Long ago, gauche moves made no agita
Your eye is careful, so discerning Caution will mark me a craven coward But rash boldness will show me blundering Smug confidence will win me no award
You can smell it in the grey afternoon The slow disintegration of small joys The feeling that the end is coming soon Not of the world, or life, but of the toys
This is merely a poem I have an odd idea These students don’t get it And I think they have taught me to understand why
When a mind made of language Revises itself What does it alter, and why?
To remember forgetting Is to see en route A future in which you won’t
Carefully, I’ll show the puzzled alien the way Through the museum of monstrosities that make us human To that smiling stranger, who on any boring day
By D. J. Reddall3 years ago in Poets
Dark sweetness has its dangerous allure It promises to make you safe and pure Fit for enduring your boss’s blunt scorn
Down we will fall, you and I Deep and soft will all of it be When pain and woe are no more Wink, and I will feel your eye kiss me
Digital dreams distract from daily doldrums Instantly, we can conjure cascades of characters who wish only to divert, stimulate, amuse
