There is a place
we some know
where you can hear the singular sand
grain, rattling inside the like
of an empty wine barrel, or beer keg
or the loneliest bedroom,
in the dark being rolled round
through a whole universe
of self, all only unto self
and just like the sound
of our earth’s stratospheres’
scrape into the vacuum.
It is the same sound
you will know
when you come to the place
where wavelets pull back
the beach sand, for a better
chance next time to touch
the toes, of the early runner
sun met and sun’s sky kissed
who left the screens
the hangovers, and the guilts
and that old follower that shouts
up the call of the falsest emptiness
as we, some know
who, sad-eyed speak
from beachfloor and picnic grass.
Same same sound,
but different, is our panacea call
so that technofeudalists have not
this summer, belonging eternal, to you too.
Warren Jeremy Rourke has borderline personality disorder and so knows what loneliness is. Unless of course, you hospitalize him for a sixth time in a psychiatric ward and then that would be like a holiday and friends after far too long alone now in his bedroom. But he is also, busy creating the world’s largest collage and so maybe, for the sake of humanity and its creative capabilities, leave him to his little things.