I’m A Wonderholic (Or Was)

Sometimes – often – I feel like my skull is on fire & my chest is full of stampeding horses ready to leap over the next gorge.

When this happens, I start spitting lyrics, lines, ideas. Fragments. Pieces of nothing. They can always lead to something interesting or special later, of course, so here I am recording today’s (the last few days) madness.

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‘There’s altogether too much wonderfulness in all of us,’ he said.

‘How can there be too much wonder?’ said the other.

‘Consider: staring at the night sky is enough to incapacitate even the greatest intellect or smallest child with awe.’

‘There can never be too much: being incapacitated with wonder ought to be our goal in life. I’d love to be a wonderholic. Can you imagine? High-functioning wonderholics drunk on wildflowers & the last poem they read, heading into work sans cynicism?’

‘I used to be like that. Now I’m in rehab. The detox was beyond belief: reality poured into my soul.’

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Some Tweets I sent this week that are stuck in my mind:

If I could synthesise the entirety of who I am and what I know to be necessary, in 140 characters, it would be this: “Read more. Love more.”

@Jeff_Sparrow When tragedy becomes routine under our watch, and suffering the norm under our hands, what new words should we use for them?

@Jeff_Sparrow Because, honestly, I don’t think those words are working anymore. They’re broken. We need a new language for this despair.

@mariekehardy Big is overrated. Dream slow, dream hard. Dream strong, dream long. Dream love. Never stop. That’s all that matters.

@amandapalmer Do you ever feel like you’re vibrating so hard inside you could disassociate into chords of music & melt into the universe?

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WARNING: This poem contains no poetry. Ingredients include: moon rock, nostalgia, a token smile, and formaldehyde (14%). Do not consume.

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Twitter Poems:

Just so you know,
I copyrighted our love
circa Feb 2013. You
can’t share its like
with anyone else &
I have the paperwork
to prove it. #poem

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I see so many people
With keys round their neck
To which locks, I wonder;
The doors they own
Mother’s home
Local shop
Or yesterday’s dreams?

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