Concepticlets

Bubbles

Bubbles of stuff less concrete than air

Shimmering brightly and softly at once

Iridescent and ticklish, gravid but light

Bubbles that never burst

Building upon bubbles in a bubbly realm

Brings bubbly bits to a froth

It's the froth that fades into a headache.

Dreams

Skipping through the graveyard

Of mental suicide

Of social masochism

Of the memories that have lied

Humming to a funeral march

Of melancholic chords

Of eerie, thudding rhythms

Of psychological swords

Digging up the corpses

Of childhood inventions

Of honey driven minds

 Of sweetly sour tension

Waltzing in the moonlight

Of what is not quite sin

Of what is almost lunacy

Of a silent inner din

Melting in the sunrise

Of so-called reality

Of harsh and cruel systems

Of false necessity

Only in that graveyard lies eternal fantasy.

Netthought

Here in a second, gone in the next

Before I can translate it into text

A single flash, brighter than the monitor

Gone faster than light travels from a foot away

Here in a moment, then as it never was

Replaced by a hum, a dull sort of fuzz

A quick little blink, then a long stretch of blank

What to do now that the mind is going?

Aha! What ho! Huzzah! It's back.

I wished to get up and consume a snack.

But now I am here, and then I am gone

Before, remembering didn't take this long

 I cannot reason, I cannot rhyme

My mind has gone, as you see, offline

Offline! Oh no, so I am.

I must, to be sure, get back on again.

So now I return, with my meaningless text.

I am here in a second, gone with the next.

Figures

Wide and free, large and strong, but caught like flies on a piece of paper.

Obsessing over the numbers of their companions'

As they become absorbed in the quiddities of standardized intelligence.

The useful mind shrinks as determination to kill the already struggling rainbows,

The impending date accelerates the death of the potential visionaries

As it brings out the mindless drone in the mindful, purpose is lost

And the deadening cycle carries us all deeper into oblivion.

Suicidal tendencies of society drive wealth into worthlessness

And the worthless to disguised indifference, a state worse than hate

Torture without pain, pain without feeling

This is our destiny.

Too excited

Loud enough to be silent are the unspoken ideas of mentality

Lightly speeding thoughts follow it deep undermind

Words are too slow to translate the emotions of the conscious self

Whilst serious undertones of sarcastic communication soothe confusion

Wonder massages the internal headache and discovery brightens the eternity

With comedic intervals rippling throughout like pebblewaves in a pond

Inefficient are the renditions of this phenomenon

Nevertheless I thank everything for this gift that is thought.

Johnny on the Porch

The moon rises over the streetlamps unnoticed,

Johnny ignores the winds' whispered memories of day

He tries to tune out the radiator to focus on his troubles,

To have a good cry.

He thinks and he mumbles, "What to do? What to do?"

Never realizing he wants the answer to "Who are you? Who are you?"

And no part of him wonders of what he needs to know:

"How to be? How to be?"

Surely nothing needs to know how to be...

The moon and the wind certainly don't.

Johnny used to gaze at the moon and listen for the wind;

Now he glares at the streetlamps and curses the radiator.

He wants to want and thinks of doing as living;

He wants the radiator to shut up.

Pushing away heavy tears, he goes inside.

He puts his children to bed.

But late at night, when they cannot sleep because of his snores,
They might gaze at the moon and listen for the wind,

Knowing that they are and wanting nothing but to be.