2 Poems

By GRSTALT Comms

A Texture Feature

When living in the corridor remember to keep your legs straight.

Lower your head for approaching couriers.

Don’t get envious of the furniture.

Create pleasing shadows to keep the tenants guessing.

Tell a story with no point of view and no resolution.

Tell it like you’ve got nothing left to offer.

Streamline the joy of discovery for them.

These are gifted prompt magicians and face replacement wizards.

They need external texture.

You are a texture feature.

You are there to provide a frisson as they pass.

Unfamiliar scents and ambiguous intentions.

A microdose of organic life in the transit between protocols.

Exclusive access is granted to the pre-sorting pool.

There’s no shortage of surprises if you make the effort to dive.

Think of your ancestors breathing in these wonders.

Weeping their earthy peasant tears.

The majesty of the imperial basement.

The King of the Mudslide

This is a man | no more or less objectionable than any other man
| he has sustained exactly the right amount of damage to thrive
| boring everyone with his stories about how the abyss likes him
best | he receives food for watching WTF videos | his responses
are recorded | he is indispensable to the smooth running of the
operation | he is only as gregarious as he needs to be |
He runs a hand over his cropped head and says how confused
everyone is | he smirks and says there is no difference between
change and decay | he has more than he can handle but keeps
adding to the pile | he knows his media will outlive him | he
is hanging on until the game finally expels him | he knows there
is no winning | he is done marching and prefers walking |
He asks random strangers if they can hear it too | a steadily
gathering alarm | he has a network of casual acquaintances around
the country | all of whom know him by different names | picked
up and collated from excursions to various retreats and resorts
| he is the Patron Saint of Taking People at Their Word | he
gathers up stories like the ailments that have lent him a hobbled
nobility | he keeps his screen at a manageable breadth |
Somebody called him the King of the Mudslide | because he refused
to relent when the rain came | the efficacy of his tread was
recorded in the virgin sludge | he was not mollified by the
offerings from the chemical giants | the day’s mass held sleep
at bay | crowding in and making all kinds of demands |