Count one, count two or countless more,
it won’t move a muscle in me, my ways, my days.
Just as is.
Frequent wash-outs in routine,
rolls-out from my robotic manual.
Statistically, more an after-dinner ritual.
Desiccated whites of patchy mapped hands cry tearless,
worn and torn finger-ridges run beyond reversible numbness.
A germ’s ruthless plane graveyard in plain words of any language,
anyone’s warmth of embrace is in my denial, even this microbial.
Now that this hard-core hand wash-maniac walks -works- stops.
Cycle continues until something inner withdraws,
till a plotted point of finite infinity or the vice versa,
for the rigoured world waits to contain my atmosphere.
action. Vigour mortis.
Ceramic wash tap reflects a mocking irony.
Its white pokes me with ‘here and there’
winking-dying laughter sparkles.
Such spotless bland days move on
fading-shrinking-wrinkling me. Vigour mortis.
A whirr window breeze
sneaks to dash over my stoned face.
Linear rowed pencil rays pierce my pores,
forces a windward corneal glance in search of clues.
A balled clog of ‘white smoke’ mistaken night clouds,
moves slowly in mysterious master-minded circles,
A puffy rolling slug with a wild devouring need,
I doubt they do it with much difficulty from obesity,
scary to hear its hidden hunger pangs in secretive resonance.
Curiosity had been killing me these days.
Dickens would be proven wrong. No great expectations.
Zero demanding matrixes works well on me like a neutralised old monk.
Contemporarily time-bottled, to its own evasion.
A time-kill to be in timeless dimensions.
No harm I convince myself, like Simon’s satisficing principle.
Eager sparks kindle to fill in those stacks of vacuumed passion barrels.
Pascal slaps with his words the same morning.
His wordy wisdom quote I glimpse blows punch on my hollowed logics.
“Curiosity is only vanity.
We usually only want to know something so that we can talk about it.” Oh boy!
Ghostly curiosity still screams within.
Just as is. Eagerness seeds have been dormant needs.
Explodes now and then, quenches its underlying demand.
Now, what now makes this night sky lighted up in blue vividness?
Used to shrill cricket screams and pitch dark nights, this feels like fantasy…
…and I wonder about the absence of moon now,
Hiding yet diffusing light to a scenic paradise.
The other (curious) day of a full moon,
stood loaded with a firing debate on differing yellows,
how hues range bright ivory through dull straw to almost mustardy.
A befuddled ( or a curious?) man
staring me from a distant as I gaze skies above,
Shuts his window in a hurried note,
finds me a midnight mothy silhouette spinning crazy cocoons.