Inkspeak: The Invention of Sand by Mark Sheeky

 

 

We glass sugar pieces
leap in old Syrian wind,
over countless ripples of red ochre, simmering
under yellow sunrays’ gaze.

A billion gemstone lives,
trampled by gawping camels,
unaware of the destiny of silicon;
its conquest of space.
Its conquest of biological life.

The Earth in warming rotation
heating the air, a solar hum,
warm and smoky, perfect
for the robot few,
which will out-perform civilisation.

We minions,
we dead flakes of crust,
of archaic skin.
Dust to dust.
The desert will win.

Mark Sheeky’s Website

Inkspeak: The Comet by Rory Coward

cometpic

 

 

I am the Comet

with a tail that lights up.

Brilliant white, very bright,

savouring happy nights,

pulled by the fiery sun,

to the orbit

of charisma

when her brightness is

so intense for a short while

but still memorable,

so satisfying.

Betrayed by brevity,

bringing withdrawal of the soul.

Then I am slungshot away

still bright for a while after.

Fading towards deep, dark space…

There is always a return,

after long sojourns,

So I smile.

when bought back by destiny,

via the long orbit,

around her never ceasing brightness,

however distant she is,

the sun never dims, though I lose my flashing tail

as the ice hardens.

That’s a better price

than never being graced

by her hot swirling void.

This is not a true love,

rather a series of happy, delightful,

cyclic passing acquaintances,

completing heart and mind,

spilling over,

when she hot shines

Art.

Intelligence.

Talent.

Originality.

The innocence of her thoughts,

and those of experience,

for a young blazing star

yet to come to full potential,

with her raging flares shooting out

to surrounding space,

creating her auroras on the satellites.

That orbit more often

than I, The Comet,

can do.

Being in any orbit around her sunny mass,

is enough for my spirit,

with the knowledge

that my icy being,

will shine bright,

pluming out with

a radiant white, peacock tail,

when our influences

conjoin for that

brief piece of paradise.

—————————

Inkspeak: The Cusp Of What Is Blue by Mark Sheeky

blue

 

 

We lie on the cusp of what is blue
up and round, to express
our hearts is destroy them,
and in understanding we gain a transient peace,
but…
The forest is dark, the brown shack of
music glows with party dwellers.
It is warm here, the damp American rain,
the toads sing their heavy song.
It’s no wonder that this sound
was born here,
this cusp of what is blue.
——————————————-

Inkspeak: 50 Words For Sun by Matt Hassall and Deborah Edgeley

sun

 

50 Words For Sun

Orangeblaze

Glimmerize

Heatgiver

Skyrose

Baskeyorb

Beamer

Rayzine

Melter

Growthdot

Planet?

Happycircle

Riser

Beamdreamer

Spaceglobe

VitaminDme

The Light

Orange Alarm Clock

Paint Splodge

Yellow Glitter

Sinker

Moon’s Buddy

Sky Baron

Dark’s Antidepressant

Cyclesphere

SkyCurtainStar

GigantaSpec

Earthcousin

Shadowcaster

Rayhub

FoeIcarus

Round

Floatylight

Fieryfiend

Sunbulb

Dreamless

Hopebearer

Heatbutton

FreckleConjurer

Returner

Spectacle Dictator

Solar Powered

Not Moon

Ouchie

Ray Party

Fizzcrackle

World’s BFF

Hat Wearer

Rainbow Accessory

Shiftworker

Jollity Injector

Inkspeak Live: Set Sail by Rory Coward

set-sail-image

 

Set Sail

 

Writers’ pens are kissing the paper,

Gliding across the page,

Momentum is in the ascension,

Words billow in the writers’ sails.

Ideas appear from nowhere,

Gifting the writer the speed

To crash on through writer’s block waves

Giving the page what it needs.

 

And you aim your pens at the horizon,

Fingers flash on the Querty machine, and

Lest your inspiration fails,

Set sail!

Set sail!

Set sail!

 

Inspiration is thus a strange factor

That urges the pick of pens

Or to rattle away

Intense all day

At the keyboard that suffers no rest, then,

Many different ways to inspire,

Until an idea opens your door,

With catalysts,

To add to your lists

That urge you to write even more.

 

And the pens are aimed at the horizon,

Fingers flash on the Querty machine, and,

Lest your inspiration fails,

Set sail!

Set sail!

Set sail!

 

The writer’s sails can entangle,

Sea lashes fully, on the face,

Stinging salt spray, tries to strangle,

As real life gets in the way.

So, sometimes, a writer can stall,

Sailing into a battering storm,

Beaten back by gales and squalls

Abandon ship! Can be the call.

 

So you aim your pens at the horizon,

Fingers flash on the Querty machine, and

Lest your inspiration fails,

Set sail!

Set sail!

Set sail!

 

By sleepy lagoons drop your anchor,

Or seek a calm inlet to dock,

Somewhere to carry on scribbling

Without needing to stare at a clock.

Keep all your rigging and masts

Well strung and use every sail,

Slip out of port to write,

To escape any sand bleached jail.

 

And you aim your pens at the horizon,

and rattle that Querty machine,

Aim that lexis text sextant, and,

Set sail!

Set sail!

Set sail!

 

So we aim our pens at the horizon

Fingers flash on our Querty machines,

and lest our inspirations fails,

Set sail!

Set sail!

Set sail!

 

Inkspeak: The Orgastic Future by Deborah Edgeley

Orgastic pic

 

 

Gatsby stood

glancing over dark water,

like Kant at his church steeple, gathering thoughts…

 

Curious tremble.

Arms outstretched towards emerald light.

The orgastic future,

that-year-by-year-recedes-before-us.

 

Pursuit of a moment;

love frozen in his past.

His feminine jewel, his green, shimmering, feminine jewel.

Sipping chartreuse from fluted crystal.

Daisy, the dainty, docile, debutante, desired by young Americans.

The dream icing….

Surely a man could reclaim what was once his?….

 

Fifth avenue.

Dust. Car horns. Heat.

Yard-long billboard eyes

of bespectacled Dr. Eckleburg

watch Gatsby hand over

illegal liquor swag

for the mansion across the bay from Daisy…

 

Dr. Eckelburg doesn’t care.

 

Traffic lights say green! Go!

Go, go, green, run, faster, green, go, rev, light, run, go, fast

Fade.

 

Green, go, rev, green, fast, go, go, go…

Fade.

 

Daisy drove the death car that killed Myrtle.

Daisy let YOU take the blame….

 

Chartreuse frozen in fluted crystal.

 

Boats against the current,

bourne back,

ceaselessly into the past.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Inkspeak: What a Waste of My Death! by Deborah Edgeley

flowertype

 

 

The clock says two.
So where are you?
Am I the protagonist?
Or antagonist?
I know you’ve worked on me
after your supposed degree.
You say you know what you’re doing.
So,
which point of view are you using?
You foreshadowed me
and left me
in the sea
with death imagery.
Forget your master’s degree
You’ve done a Hemingway
and forgot about me.
Well, fuck that.

Erm, never mind you.
I have been waiting a whole week
to meet my first love, Roger, and he’s not appeared.
I am in tears.

Pah! Pathetic!
I’ve killed someone. Poisoned
by hemlock
in the library with ladders
and am glad that
I will never be found out.

I am a version of Pantalaiman
and I’ve got no bloody Lyra to talk to.
I might as well read Sartre
and be done with it.

To hell with you all!
I’m already dead.
That’s a cert;
because she started writing in flaming medias res.
What a waste of my death.

I’m the magic realism protagonist.
The Merlinesque enchantress.
Who knows
that if she had of written my story
it would of gotten goddam published.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Inkspeak: Love Letter To Heathcliff by Deborah Edgeley: Guitar by Dave Hulatt

wuthering pic

 

Night.

On the moor.

Ragged as you were.

I saw you

through the cracked window,

where my dead hand touched yours,

where my name was etched in three on the wooden desk.

 

Your dark long locks fought the wind,

like your soul.

Heathcliff.

MY Heathcliff.

You destroyed everything…..

 

Yes, I became a lady, yet,

I loved Edgar, not.

It was always you…

 

Your face I saw

when I tangled in flesh,

trying to make a hybrid us,

with the wrong man

 

You walk this earth without me, yet,

I walk with you.

In you.

 

I look into your eyes of pain,

and I weep,

until you return to me.

 

 

 

 

Inkspeak: Falling Man by Mark Sheeky

falling man

 

What is that thing,
that flutter of black,
against a white-grey sky
of thin nothing-winter air.
Flickering like a dying bat,
a shattered umbrella thing, falling
down, pulled
to Earth, a man.
A man arms waving
in a panic, a man
flapping, drowning in air, a man
plunging alone
in the cold air
far away,
seen from afar.
Seen.
I see him, in silence,
the falling man.