The Cold Shuffle

I shuffled Burman CDs, flipped records
for my grandfather once.
And played for him his youth...

What do I play now?
When my own soul seeks
an anchor from yesterday.

My blessings end there.
Damn! Am I seeking nostalgia
on an Android mobile?

There it is... My AI grandchild
gifts me warm, lossless songs
with cold, emotionless precision.

-- Leslie

The Dilated Song

Wish I could slow down

the song I play,

buying dilated time.

Its tempo reigned in,

but it's timbre intact,

for I dare not change the tune.

Will it help the dreams 

linger on in a trance,

a tad longer,

a minute or two,

a second or an hour,

a day or eternity.

The song heralds eternity,

and it plays in a loop.

Alas, time, its vagaries,

is linear, is a knife.

It rips open the winter jacket,

but it cuts cakes too...

-- Leslie

Dying Young!

Falling young

for the wealth, immortality,

exuberance n arrogance

of dying young.

For I’d beat time,

freeze it at the moment

I bent will n Iron

–oh, I could mend bartenders too.

I’d outrun rejection,

and the cancer

that would kill the

killer of men I am.

I’d live on,

laughing at the giver of life

I could never become,

what have I become, WHAT?

Pic: bbc.co.uk

The Inmate!

There isn’t much

left to munch now.

She cleaned up the

last morsels

of his boyhood,

onto a fresh tissue,

laced it with her breath,

sprayed it with gasoline,

and burnt it in hell.

He has a job now,

they call him a man,

he drives a car;
I call him an inmate.