Unoccupied Creatures


A Recreational Character Exercise


it's a picture stupid

MegaChain by Woodheavy Brown

Salience is untethered. Pointing, pointing, pointing out from the lashes, all the avenues of regress and narrow slipways of escape. Follow these five unoccupied creatures through their paces, in which games are played for the purpose of fitness. Occupy them as you will, they are but vacant cameras. Vessels to slip into and motivate:

  • Desdemona Tippling
  • Brilliant English
  • Landed Gentry
  • Casandra Awkward

K. Shawn Edgar | Devoid | Lonesome | Foes Bane

Double Dutch

Lovingly Come to Madrid
o

A spacecraft on rocky ground;
you wake in a room with levitating bed.
Stepping to the floor and shrugging it off
you throw a paranoid glance at the ceiling.

The whirring of an electric fan draws you in,
confronted by a small half-bathroom with sink,
you are wearing cycling gloves. Unclean?
You lovingly wash your gloved hands in lather.

You won’t be with me, or on my side;
you’ll be a beamer, a sweet roll pusher.
A taste of the moment totalitarian, you.
When the bulwarks break, you’ll run.

Through the turnbuckle, will our lengths
maintain the tension of dramatic irony?
Or snap under the crude expectations,
the lurid expectations, of the crowd?


K. Shawn Edgar | Paper Hat | Pedal Pusher | Redolent Festival

The Metal Crushes Above

Overpass Ceilings

Pull you out

out of mouths

a mix of sounds

gradually forming

one word to rule

to override motors

to negate their noise

passing outside windows

My new collection

gathered from voices

passing outside windows

She—Bright—Legs—Heat

Accounts—Forever—Sun—Debit

Focus the secret message

coming from daily clatter

instructions for creation

passing outside windows

I pull you out

out of color and sound vibrations

out of commonplace mouths

to make a dreamy silhouette

dancing on crisp coverlets

touchable, tangible: a solidified whisper

from ears to fingertips and lips, two lips

passing from under overpasses

these vaulted ceilings

fleshy sounds incubating

tornados into toenails

building up from skin cells

passing outside windows

You accumulate inside

synapse snaps—impulsive glitter

passing outside windows

And there you are

tangled in colors and coverlets

vibrating every follicle into singular hysteria

outside my window


K. Shawn Edgar | Vang | Tonal | Unincorporated

Yes, We’ve Got the Video

Better than the night, its shadows from artificial light
do capture more than mood and tone; more than our
little homage to the bountiful French New Wave movies
we soaked our innocence in.

I, the rogue–the antagonist in long, dark trench coat
followed you through jump-cuts and past stone walls.
You, the knife-edged lady in bangs and black bowtie
falling down tunnels and climbing back up ladders.
This is the short of a long, long intermission.


K. Shawn Edgar | Goth Trench | Mash Cadet | Crypt Keeper

 

Your Night with the Smell of Burning Chrome

pic of purple pugs

Cell Lights

Your Night with the Smell of Burning Chrome


In memories brought back to you by the smell of burning chrome,
ghostly wisps only there in your knowing of what’s to come,
you feel the non-weight of your future children’s hallowed hands
upon you forehead.

They live in a place called Neomantis, and you know it to be
without hierarchies, without the haters of now.

Through them you know light touches lithe bodies, you feel innumerable
unconscious thoughts mingling like notes from autonomous player pianos.
Unlike the syllables pouring from out the wetted mouths of soapbox men,
who are sounding out unfamiliar words:

jua kali, temazepam, sinker-mesh, aegis, and macro porous.

And you jotting down information — someone’s phone number,
a child’s shoe size, broken quotes from Dante and Huxley, or
that wild cyberpunk writer named Pfeil.

Until a slippery step, a frosty curb, a car out of control, and you flying
within the lighted siren sounds of emergency. Crash as exclamation,
excitation.

A reconstructed jaw, a pinned eye socket, a joint with screws and
you taking copious notes on the as yet developing cerebral matter
of your future children’s anterior left hemispheres and distal axons,
about your night with that unforgettable smell of burning,
of peeling away at, of tasting the sweet, dirty chrome.

Of a crash that brought you closer to home.


K. Shawn Edgar | Rain Pilot | Long of Arm | Sovereign

A Little Bit About Me For Your Files

•Lovely Kiss•

In the bitterest night of sleepless tumblings, cold feet and crack mouth
I flip rough-edged pillows, half teetering on the brink … denied dreams.
Camden Town subpharms, where broken dollies and Curzon Cubs
trade dirty cash for ramped up lollipops or pharmacy castoffs.

You must know, my head is bigger on the inside. And doesn’t socialize
so well. And a heart that fuels a body, fuels not the dark energy in space.
Heart’s energy is dependent on blood, mucus, and solent sea proteins
(originating between Hampshire and Isle of Wight).

Ill street noise surrounds, the Pale Stone Circus, a mobile safe harbor.
I feverishly pedal the petals around our flowering culture’s reproductive parts.
So brightly colored, this corolla sustains me; the lone cyclist, the pollinator.
Of empty fields, and buzz worthy thoughts, not fit for the everyday people.

So radio waves are helping me help myself. And the videos. And the mashing.


K. Shawn Edgar | High Lighter | Lapsed of Time | Lost Pilot

 

A Space Poem: Hecate

*

Pic of Love Under Lights

Photo by K. Shawn Edgar & Woodheavy Brown


Hecate

Europa in Satin or Titan’s Gas Hatcheries

All for the birth, and the warm hatchlings sang: Shout, Shake, Shine!

Our lives are coming home to Titan; the gassy propylene contentment

is life’s easement on property lines; singing a frothing la la tat la tea la

There’s heat in the moon, if viewed through the right lens, la tea tare la

Our first true space travelers will be lei plastic container manufacturers

pushing the lines of assembly out, up, oh la la ti to hues of orange fade

On Europa, past, a haberdasher bleeds remorse for fine satin fabric decay

Its warp threads, never caught and looped by mirror planets of the weft

so the weave falls apart, becoming the darkest black spot la ti gleaming

in a hatchling’s eye; come full stop, infrared, bring out green’s gritty desire

showing its truest all-color back to us in the hydrocarbon haze

And

floral winter cream’s lace, which cloaks the creatures of other Worlds

for all hatchlings know: they Live… in the Waters

speaking in nature’s groove, ridge, groove, oh la la tat la tea la

Talk, vocal ultraviolet, to the hive in disarray, telling us new riddles to say

Are those bundles of gas queer hatcheries for Titan’s teaming natives?

Or…

do we wrap the unknown in hopeful satin and creamy lace for a new chance,

a new beat,

a blazing fresh change of pace,

blindly shooting our one lasting-lastly kiss, forever on, to Titan’s Bloom?


K. Shawn Edgar | Firespawn | Dubious Groundhog | Lapsed of TimeSpace