Sunday, April 28, 2013

Electric Veil


Electric Veil

We spoke
without moving our lips
in the manner of
the electrically veiled.

We stroked
each others' pixels, pink and plump
on the liquid crystal display,
dry as shed snakeskin

to the attenuated touch
in the febrile flashes
of the tubes of night

Atoms surely collided,
neurons fired in an old dance
but the feet never moved
the fingers never

found the frets or pluck
of the plangent lyre.
Only the synthesizer
thumped on till dawn

when the power failed.

~April 2013

 Hover mouse for image attribution, or click to go to the photographer's flick'r page.


  1. Ha. This is wondeful. Especially love the frets and plangent. Such great fleshy words and wondeful counterpoints to the cerebral and pixelated. And great humor, satire, irony at the end. Do I sense some blogging fatigue? Ha (again). I am on my phone so will end up as outlawyer. K.

    1. Ps -- the image of the shed snake skin as synaptic shell or whatever it is also works very well.

    2. Your senses are fully operational, k. ;-) Thanks for reading. TWO MORE DAYS!!!

  2. smiles...ha. um, the first part made me think of the next generation in phone sex...the skype/cyber sex, stroking pixels...i like the turn to music there in the end..the power going on in the end, excellent close...very interesting piece hedge

  3. So near and yet so far? Anything that can shed its skin can also leave a nasty bite and poison the system for a good long time. Be careful out there, Viking Chick.

  4. I love the technical/science-y language of this. I'm a (former?) scientist myself so half of my brain is rooted in scientific epistemology. This gives your poem depth, and is so appropriate for the topic. Very nicely woven.

  5. This is so interesting and people can feel so completely connected through electronic media that they forget the tangible is absent. You captured that idea very well here.

  6. Neat and innovative, not enough poetry deals with this stuff!


"We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, out of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry." ~William Butler Yeats