. . . . . .
I thought we could make it I couldn’t bear the thought
an idea formed from intimate this idea made from vague
stop-motion pictures, brief initiatives would unravel me,
snaps of the blind flash would lace us in the blind
fiction, a coming of age flash fiction, reeling films
text-to-speech in motion, then out of speechless emotions,
coffee with conversations, coffee stains painting us
eyes; we’re parting our lips exchanging breaths; eyes
opened, closed, opened, closed, opened, closed,
and the world can be real – and the world can’t be real –
our sudden escalations this I know will escalate
to nowhere. Or if that to nowhere. Or if that
somewhere was a place I’d be sure that I’d be
for pixel parks – hidden safe from myself – hidden
in the flood of Wi-Fi signals in a tangle of Wi-Fi signals,
to the sent histories, lingering bogged down in the cache,
with scents dug into my bed ruminating over fragments
sheets, and memoirs of a spoon left indented on the outskirts
indented on the right – of your physical life.
you were melding with me How could we materialise
in the middle of it all. in the middle of it all,
I was morphing our existence, complacent in this existence –
now knowing you after knowing me knowing after you knowing now
you as hexadecimal. Maybe of these consequential infinities?
it’s me who’s locked within I don’t want to barricade you
the handset infinite regress, within my firewalls and 4G
here where we shift out fortresses of cybernetics
the bones of our conscience – connected to the white skins
I didn’t know we could and shuffling flesh. I can’t
when we siphon fluid words bleed the veins of my words –
from our thumbs and risk it I’ll pour until our voices turn
in some level of purgatory dust in purgatory drought,
decay in digital permanence. rotting under our fleeting guise.
But deletion is permanence, or But deletion is fleeting, and
a paradox when a ghost freedom when a human
kisses me, holds me, holds me, kisses me, takes
leaves a spoon indented my soul and indents it
on the right edge of the bed, in the outskirts of his life,
and any further traces and any further traces
found in ideas formed of lost ideas made shared
from these cold stop-motion from warm, vague initiatives
pictures and brief snaps from unravelled in these films from
the blind flash fiction is the blind flash fiction, is
framed for a profile, framed for a memory,
empty and without a name. locked away without a body.
Swipe Right Swipe Left
James Renshaw is a Sydney based Alt-Lit writer with a focus on video games and cybercultures. His debut poem ‘404 Not Found’ was published in Cordite Poetry Review and remixed in The Lifted Brow. With a lifelong goal to shed an intellectual light on interactive and digital experiences as a mantra for his writing and research, James is currently working on his first collection.