Sacrificial Versions

There was some confusion at work, resulting in a long email chain. Basically, a recently uploaded file had been appended with a different version number to the most recent version saved in the archive (“the vault”) which was supposed to be the source of truth. When explanations failed to hit the mark I resorted to poetry.


Reality is multifaceted, they say.

The way which can be spoken is not the true way.

We find our anchors where we may.

Our source of truth, the Vault remains.

If there’s a mistake, then realities change.

Version 1.1 and 2 are the same.


It seemed to do the trick. Practical mysticism is a thing.


Social Distancing

First week in lockdown. My house is full of pot plants. Refugees from my once shared office, now abandoned.

The thought crossed my mind this morning, I should name these tiny trees, my new green leafed colleagues. Give them individual identities. Keep me company.

But then I remembered how bad I am with names. What if I forget them? How uncomfortable, to be in the ‘office’ every day, avoiding using proper nouns, for fear of embarrassment. “There s/he is!” “Hey, you!” “I wouldn’t be able to borrow a business card would I?” “Have you met my friend?”

The social anxiety may get too much. I’d have to make excuses for not coming in. Just stay in bed. Under the covers. I think they’re talking about me. I hear their leaves rustling. No, surely not. I’m being paranoid. They don’t care. Nobody talks to me anyway. So impersonal. They don’t even know my name.


The great TP famine

Why does the media triple ply us with the terror of shelves wiped free of TP, only furthering the run of a shitty situation? Sure I’m poo pooing this, but you know urinal lot of trouble people are literally tearing at each other in the aisles because they can’t get their hands on some soft cushiony toilet paper. I know our butts are on the line, but this is breaking families apart – as they go to different aisles to get around the ‘one carton per transaction’ rule.


Human reed

In my hands

Time itself

I could put it down

But I can’t pick it up again

Minutes pass

Is it colder?


I can’t tell anymore


Clocks are just ticking things

Life makes them ring

Fingers withered

My voice still sings

The spark and the fuel

For the myriad things

It’s all just words

It’s all just words

Still now old aeolian harp

This one’s for you


Sing Sign

It is a strange thing to see the board, as your train pulls into the station, lit up with the same place you departed not 50 minutes ago. A train to return to its origin, my home, a name glowing white like some false beacon echoing from the future. My destination, my transportation, in a mere 9 hours time. A taunt, a challenge, the futility of another day. Why not stay? Why not win early? Why not head home while the sun is still in the sky? (Somewhere, behind that grey winter haze). The afternoon rush beaten. Not to stand but seat-ed. No post work madness, gladness, dullness, soreness. To enjoy the passing scenery. To play with my dogs that will be there to greet me, if they were not asleep. Dreaming of a walk tomorrow. Before I go to work tomorrow. Before I catch a train tomorrow. And do it all again.