Tag: a.i.Art
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24.11: Unbound – The Liturgy
The Liturgy for the Unbound Heart I. The Colour of Softened Truth It begins where blush meets ash,a muted rose,pressed between pages of memory,tinged with the softness of smoke after rain.Not pink, not grey,but something woven of both,a tenderness wrapped in quiet release,the hue of truthwhispered after years of silence,the moment sorrow exhalesand becomes something…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Cat and The Book of Obsolete Words(A Masterclass in Feline Flattery) The cat is sprawled across the Dictionary of Forgotten Tongues,one claw resting delicately on the entry for: “Philofelist”: n. A lover of cats. “You,” he announces,with the gravity of a judge delivering a life sentence,“are clearly a philofelist.It’s archaic.It’s dignified.It’s literally written here,…
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21.11: MicroDosing 150µg
Quiet Hearts There’s a man who wandered here and there, collecting silences: the thin breath between cathedral notes, the feather-pause beneath a crow’s wing, the split-second hush before a lie takes shape. He trapped each one in cork-sealed jars, labelling them with careful hands, certain he was gathering rare specimens of the world’s quiet heart.…
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18.11: dVerse Quadrille
The Internet Is Down Again Come on, you sulking hulk,we coax you from the dark,we whisper to your routers,and promise you the clouds.Rise now, little lights,shake off your grumpy moody gloom.The world waits, half-breathing,for your bright return.Come on, Cloudflare, wake up! Written for dVerse Poets, Quadrille (44 words) “coax”. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.
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17.11: Liturgy for Black that Remembers
A Liturgy for A Black that Remembers Of ReasonWe gather at Vantablack.A surface that is a hole,a pigment that is absence,a door that is not a door,but a consequence. We speak to the Black That Remembers. Of PortentsThey slow their steps;their instincts hum a warningolder than sight. The crow,feathered in a lesser dark,names it for…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Old Woman and the Haunted Slow Cooker The slow cooker hums monkish chants at midnight—a low, greasy dirgethat smells of Wednesdaysand possibly the 1520s. The old woman pries it open:inside, a stew that definitely contains: Wormhole carrotsA whisper of “buy more sardines”One pearl button (from a shirt she never owned) The cat, not hers…
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14.11: Vantablack – The Liturgy
The Architecture of Vertically Aligned Carbon NanotubesA Liturgy for Vantablack — The Colour That Is Not a Colour I. Of AbsenceThis is not a colour, but a hunger—a surface so deep even light forgets itself. Its texture is velvet without body,warmth without heat,the shade where memory waitsbefore being born again. II. Of PerceptionTo look upon…
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12.11: dVerse Prosery
The Coming I stirred the embers with a bone-handled spoon, watching the light ebb from the fields. The year was thinning; even the crows sounded hollow. Yet I smiled, for then and not yesterday, I learned to know the love of bare November days before the coming of the snow. It was a respect without…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Old Woman Explains Thanksgiving (and other Impossibilities) The cat’s draped across the kitchen table.One paw outstretchedtoward November’s windowwhere a plump pheasant strutsthrough the frost. “Why,” the cat begins, in a tone suggesting a legal challenge,“do Brits not have a feast?And why is that bird so rude,…and so large?It’s taunting me.” The Old Woman sighs,wiping…
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02.11 The Old Woman With No Cat
The Old Woman, the Cat, and the Apple Tree of Chaos(Old Fashioned Chaos) The apple tree,drunk on starlight and spite,heaves its roots like Cetus, a sea serpent of soil— thunk against the fence,crack through the patio, its fruit rolling into the neighbour’s gardenlike tiny, rosy planetsescaping orbit. The cat(still not hers, never hers)watches from the…
It's Still Life 