Tired
but not too bent -
that’s me.
I don’t want to be old
but I want to be wise,
Don’t care.
I’m creaking
like slowing oak
and sap goes sallow
on its way.
Now, I’m speaking
with a growing croak
but unbowed
and not bust -
at least I’m growing,
and thus,
I’m sneaking
into night
with slow moon rush
over ground and loam
to follow though,
to hush
to shallow breaths
of closing eventide.
I wander on
with feet of clay,
but part of me,
I leave today.

I like this living room you speak of
it reminds me of my own hippy upbringing.
Sundays, when the musicians came by
experimentation was on a grand scale.
and once, there was even a famous Dutchman
jamming with my dad grinning like a valley.
I was the young one who knew all the names -
cited influence of Harvest and Charisma artistes,
old heads seemed cool with the youngly wise.
That’s how it felt back then, in his music room
trying to stay in tune with Beardsley wallpaper
waiting by the paintings for his blue-smoke jazz.
I snuck the breath of adulthood before my time,
and now I send it back.

I predict
data vultures
circling
the bones of Nefertari,
preening
their wings
cleaning the digital grease
of things
I predict,
and though she danced
she now is bowed
like me
tension tight
tonight
I predict
a dimmed culture
all zero and one
averaged
drones of Neotime
stealing the memes
casting their net
sealing the seams
I predict
yet stay damned
and proud,
like a Cuneiform dynasty
teasing stones
magnetized and bright
this night
I predict
the signals lost,
the circuits bent
in wired fog
the snakes are calling
from carrion crave
and in their ways,
and in all they say.
I now rebel.