Kowloon Walled City

Standard

I’ve built you up quite a bit,

And I’m finding it harder and harder,

To leave than ever before.

If I could see in here,

I’d find unwound wires,

That cross-cross the cracks,

In the concrete,

And trickles of tap water,

That run down your fa├žade.

But being off-the-grid,

Has it’s own advantages-

If walls could talk,

They’d tell you that,

We reach high here,

In spite of what we’re missing.

No sunrise goes unseen,

People stand on their balconies,

With nothing,

And also everything they need.

Vinyl

Standard

Walking,

Blindfolded,

Through the annals,

Feeling the walls,

And using echolocation.

The ancient texts,

Sacred incantations,

Chants of legends,

Contained in texture,

To be deciphered,

By a stylus,

Which cannot,

Transcribe.

Each pressing,

With its own,

Character.

Each batch with,

It’s own,

Flaws,

Hissing,

Popping,

Scratches,

Not even counting,

The shattered ones.

Revolutions,

Dictate,

No matter,

How convoluted,

The labyrinth,

Until it’s time,

To switch,

To the other side.

A Proxy

Standard

I once opened an antique drawer,

And found covered in dust,

A tiny burlap doll,

With black buttons for eyes,

Yellow yarn for golden locks,

And a sewed-up mouth,

That stood at about 1/15th my size.

A stand-in,

For me,

Though I was unconvinced,

And didn’t see the resemblance.

I hope there was no malice in this,

It was kind of cute,

In an unsettling way,

Besides,

I get pins and needles enough as it is.

I pinched him,

Just to make sure,

I wasn’t dreaming,

And wasn’t pleased,

With the results.