01:17 a.m.

img_0417

So You got hacked
and now my phone is dead
from following an
email link
which came late
when i was weary
and trusting
You
and i
forgot to remember
You’re a virus
leaving me unable to communicate
with those who
don’t follow
late night links sent
from idiots whose
idea of fun
is tying up time
in online bondage
time that could have
been spent
communing
with me...
You’re a digital virus
rendering me mute
You should have
called instead.

 sandie zand, 01:17 3rd Feb 2018
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Flashbacks in colour

Spencer pours another whisky. It leaps up the side of the glass, pitching over the edge and trickling down his hand. His clean hand. His neat, manicured hand. There was a time its flesh was seldom seen, when he could move through days and nights without pause, his skin an extension of each worked canvas, its colour echoing progress – Prussian Blue, Viridian, Indian Red, Mars Violet, Ivory Black. Always ivory black.

Those colours no longer grace palette or skin.

Those colours belong to another time.

He stands behind the glass of the locked door and watches the movement of others. Holidaymakers propelled by forced jollity from shop to shop, activity to activity, meal to meal, weighed down with bags of beach hut aesthetics compulsively acquired for an urban setting. The wrong shades, the wrong light. They’ll never understand beauty as context, arrangement, balance, harmony. Year upon year they will remove pretty pebbles from the beach only to later wonder how their beauty expired.