Don't speak until spoken to, alright?
Walks outside in this weirdo's view? Let's
see... in public, I'm turned into a trainer at
the zoo, walking past social cages that,
as long as the cages are locked,
I'm over the views. Studying in the
mornings to survive in case the
gorilla-proof glass shatters, and though it's memorized--
I still can't talk to you all. Makes no sense.
No more than required anyway. Mind deficiencies
or atrophy of the social bits right slap blocking
all introductions, and a little past the ticket booths.
Script is preset, your line in three, two...
Yep, still can't be predicted. Blind to signs,
tiny micro facial functions keep the
facts conflicted--"the hell did that seat belt tug
mean?" Shit, the rest went by too quick to note.
Fine, I'll coat my disclaimer for my lack of subtlety
in this clinical charm drainer with some jokes, some
factual anecdotes, and finish with us back on
the proverbial track. Although that's if they
know I'm not busy, know the time is available for the chat, know my boundaries aren't being clashed with, know the kindness isn't work-related, know you're not intruding on my general existence, know that close to the nearest of near misses parking I'll forgive, or I missed it, know my smile isn't a lie, know what you'd like to talk to me about, know that my version of the thing is understood the same as your version of that thing, know my stances aren't beyond your scope of tolerance or can't keep up--
"I'm Quinn; that your build?"
"Sorry, I'm all in my--Joe. Nice to meet you. Digging ZXs, aintcha?"
"Hell, yeah--"....
About the Creator
Willem Indigo
I spend substantial efforts diving into the unexplainable, the strange, and the bewilderingly blasphamous from a wry me, but it's a cold chaotic universe behind these eyes and at times, far beyond. I am Willem Indigo: where you wanna go?
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Skaters in the Wind
Absurdity if you know who you’re talking to…Hails coming off the mountain peaks, bails wrapped in time-freeze wickedness, ex-patriots still a mass sliming the heaven sent as the brains swells. Fail to see the look on faces or why the importance of the alley of steel flagpoles and Great Red woods—oh, that kind of STRIKE!!!!! Every word, a lean over just another edge in the teetering, burning car. What can be said to clarify the sheer audacity of the oncoming sla—AHHHHH!!! Whelp, while the wheels are spinning, welcome to the committee. Barkers at the moon, relishers in the lunatic fit, hot heads against the road rash, Zen types of radically imbalanced. Universal shit talkers, dares you to play back the tape, puller outers of its innards, and spreaders throughout the blaze. Vanishers before the badged banishers. Commuters through The Wild Yonders of colors only expressed in the shadows. Better-luck-next-timers breaking into the private parking lots. Lesser of two evils amongst the hall of meat saints, fainters at the sentencing, leaders of the orchestral clatter somewhere out sick in the wrong cityscapes. Lovers of all, none, and ‘how the hell they do that’s?’ harbingers of hill bomb affections, Zoom!!! Lesson learners the concrete way, then rest in traffic or thinking lower than the devil’s bed. ‘Runners in a pinchers,’ punchers after the slap. Dapper of the most chaotic fields, tokken sinners in the lush decorum, gravity rule benders, ‘FUCK YOU, PUNKS’ return to senders. Redder than the blush, disgusting as perpetually expired anything skidded on the sidewalk, dire straits for kinkless rails like you’re going down on a mountain pass. Setters of the tone. Clever bosses inside the restricted zones. Violet-er sort of lusters, reading through false flags of every FUBARed gathering before street lights are nothing but shade. Faders from the commonwealth in protest of anyone’s anything. Bringers of the Death Wishers, Bakers, and Stereos to Flip pressure cracks in the side talk that gets the crowds into echoing snaps at the mosh pit. Readers in the forbidden Tibetan hills, aloud to the Yeti’s kin, goodnight, and no one needs to lose an arm. Attackers of the silence, violence witnessers from inside the cage, always by the second round of the ground and pound. Writers of the Mystical Leaks in Space-Time Fabric without the Softener. (sorry kid.) Scripters like prophecies appear on skinned knees. Kinder in the trenches, bench sitters counting seconds until the ban is up. Wrenchers for the fuck of it, completers of sections in ways that stump the Bermuda tetrahedron. Angerer of those itchy trigger fingers, danger wrapped in physics lessons, the ones with the kind of danger on our dashboards that has you counting the miles. Grippers without the tape, wolves dancing around the witch’s brew…be damn the morning plate of crepes. Wack rappers on fire on the parking level with the flailing live wires. Welcome one and all to where the Zoo meets the Streets.
By Willem Indigo15 days ago in Poets
The Missing Ingredient
The first time I saw her, she was wearing a velvety, red ribbon in her hair. She carried a small leather backpack everywhere. She searched the forest by turning stones, checking beneath shrubs, listening to the wind as if it might carry an answer.
By Imola Tóthabout 23 hours ago in Fiction
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