John Grey

Love is a smile. Love is that 3 o’clock wine shared when the heating is out. Love is blowing out the candle. Love is old pictures you find in the attic. Love is that something that leaks onto your cheek when you hear that one song. Love is your childhood. Love is talking about nothing. Love is being found. Love is all the butterflies in your world deciding to migrate. Love is a long walk back home at night. Love is the tips of shoes meeting. Love is fingernails on skin. Love is hairs standing up straight for once. Love is when you stare over the table at dinner and suddenly realize your food is cold. Love is the warm underside of the bed cover. Love is playing with your ring or necklace or hair when you don’t mean to. Love is talking about everything. Love is breakfast in bed and a picnic on the roof. Love is helping to pick up an orange in the supermarket. Love is missing your stop. Love is fingertips touching. Love is walking shamelessly into a glass door and laughing it off. Love is a sunset for two. Love is missing a flight. Love is handwritten. Love is a hand slowly losing warmth. Love is feeling lost. Love is remembering. Love is forgetting. Love is closing your eyes because you don’t want to see any more. Love is finally opening them to move on. Love is that final long beep. Love is …

Your voice tastes blue.

there he sat
the little robot that did not care
he did not care what sparked his life
nor did he see the beauty in the details of nature
he did not see joy in the musings of children
he did not see the force of life within them
the chaotic winds of lust and romance passed by
and the friendships he never had withered away
and yet all he did was sat

his creators looked upon him and frowned
his was to be a happy life
and his was to be a joyous one
he was to be the first to feel
and unlike his brothers
he was the only one who did not
he saw what they made of themselves
and he saw pictures of what they had done
his family all sat
on elegant shelves
but dust revealed neglect
as it usually will

and he simply sat in his room
on the edge of his bed
and he did not move
if not breathing then dead
and he looked at the door
on his face there was not
a hint of a smirk
nor a thought of a snark
or show grief at death
not a twitch he did not
not a nod of approval
and no bother for rust
he simply sat

his father, grown old
once entered and asked
‘why do you not go out?’
but the little one just stared
not getting and answer
and getting no reply
his father just left
and the room was sealed shut
the little robot
on the end of the bed

his father did pass
and his brothers broke down
their creations were sold
or worse, replaced
the walls around him
turned brown and then fell
and his bed of iron
did crumble and then decay
and everyone looked
and everyone saw
the little robot still sitting
and they held him in awe

all the wars
and he simply sat
and the famine and death
and he simply sat
and the plagues and threats
and still he just sat
and politicians they lied
and he still just sat
the people saw him
in his mood unaffected
and a following grew
but this did not upset him

walls were rebuilt
and a chair was made
for this little robot
needed to see
he did not speak
not a word nor a whisper
his face unchanging
his thoughts unclear
and forged for him they did
a crown of gold
sat on his head
little antenna to hold

and many things did these followers do
this little robot lead great wars
all while sitting on his throne
staring at walls
not speaking a word
his eyes ever bright
he sat and he thought
given his sight

eons did pass
this little robot just sat
defeated were armies
and cities were sacked
followers, they died
the robot found himself
in a ditch
on the side of a road
all covered in dust
nearly corroded
but was just mold

‘its a relic’
he said
blowing away at the dust
this thing is still working
amazing - no rust
‘what do you do’
‘do you clean or repair’
but the little robot sat
not blinking, just stared
‘oh what is wrong with you’
‘let me have a look’
‘a wire undone’

robots can’t cry
never have, never will
and I’m not saying
that this one did

but no human or alien
could have ever cried
like the little sad robot
who sat there and tried

kõike mida inimhing võib välja lugeda
ärapõlenud maailma jäänukeist
ei suuda kunagi enam tunda need,
kes ei saa mõelda juhtunust

otsused, mis on ära visatud tuulde
meenutavad end põlevas aroomis
puhastada ei suuda tänavaid
ei ümbersünni vihm
ei pisarad
ei meretuuled
ei ohked ega hüüded

peegeldavad tänavad möödunut
nii ammust
sammud, mida lugeda enam ei suuda
rõõmuhõiked, mis ammu enam ei kõla
viha, mis leegina ei põle
hirm, mis peeglina ei värise

maailmast, kus lahkunud on hinged
riigist, mille piire enam loeta
tänavast, millest mälestusi pole
majast, kus põrandad ei karju

kuskilt vabadust leida
kuskilt silmasära pilgata
kuskilt õhturõõme kanda

tuhatorm sai kutsutud
ja vastuse mürin oli selge
ja vihased sammud kõlasid
ja raputasid hinge

Kodutreppidel istub Toomas Televiisor, 30, hiljuti abielus - tänapäeval lesestunud. Mõttes ripub töölt lahkumine, puhkusele minek või isegi kolimine ja mitte ei suuda otsustada milline valik see kõige õigem või toredam on. Kontorirottidega jagatud õlled on mõjutanud perspektiivi, aga pigem pinnale toonud ainult sisemise-Toomase arvamused. Kindel on ta aga enda hetkeseisu adekvaatsuses või täpsemalt selle puudumises.