talking crap.

My favourite sounds are voices
They don’t dance around the peripheries of silence
Taking on the ritual blessing to their king, White Noise.
Clattering tins, smashing plates, rustling dry leaves,
Soft jazz, smooth exhale, or the microwave ping...
Ought to learn from the human tongue.
Break into the stifling bell jar.
The great voice penetrates it; bursting, harrowing
Shattering the sticky, glacier of calm.
No matter what words are carried on the waves of that voice
It is always saying the same thing;
“There’s somebody else on this godforsaken circle.
You are not alo...”