by tommy wyatt blake
This poem is part of the forthcoming collection “FOR YOUR ENTERTAINMENT” (Troublemaker Firestarter, Nov. 2026)
forecast contains negatives of space, to be placed on a projector. the light fluxing a coned port of stars, dustspecks displaced from image, all wraith of life and dulled. few patches of vibrating fields shift between frames, you could say its particles got all rearranged. here, time is measured in asynchronous units, no movement is recorded quite the same. foreign objects studded on the cosmic background, sensors buzzing of radiation, all with the intention to claim you. wake you out of sleep, choking on wanting to know why. it couldn’t have been better predicted,
how the last item in your search history contains “aren’t dreams a type of forecast, i mean don’t dreams anticipate the future? spit out a fate-to-fade ratio?” there isn’t anything linear to be observed here, laced with language through your teeth or otherwise, but a structure chasmed by lack of light in the room. that is, if you turn your head 90 degrees, you’ll feel velocity in real time. how you face dark patches pittering with wet mattered heat, until you’re spaced out on somatics, the body drained out of you,
as you whispertype: “thanks, i’ll take the boötes void,” followed by “see my form? how it’s nightvortexed when i blink five times?”, you rate the product as the absence of stars (0). the slides click off.
tommy wyatt blake (he/they) is the jester of popular culture and poet laureate of timefuckery. he’s the author of FOR YOUR ENTERTAINMENT!; Mutually Assured Destruction; DITCHLAPSE / [REALLY AFRAID]; So, Who’s Courage?; Trick Mirror or Your Computer Screen; and others. they are currently synthesizing digital archives, space voids, and confines of the body.
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