His Microphone Shaped Cloud – Isabelle Newson

October 8, 2025

He is ready for reverent disciples to congregate around his body.
Yolk, chalky and pale, shrinking amidst bubbling clouds
surrounding him in a punishing globular pattern.
Negating permission to share an echoing stick, keen on getting to know how his singing voice differs from mine.
Encroaching upon ardor with anger.
Repugnant screaming, eyes crinkling into crumpled paper when he says “remote.”
Except as I close my eyes, I hear dialogue as seeds implanting solutions.
Sore throat tinctured with kratom, soothed by a tethered love seat until 4 pm.
Morning time, he says, settling his acolyte bones,
staring through a molded windowsill, wishing Parisian clouds were akin to Dutch ones.
Synonymous with Holland rain’s cabaret for Brussels, but never coming close to the erotic tincture it is for Los Angeles and only for flat, voyeuristic Los Angeles.
Solemn he is. Screeching in his brain for an answer– his own. His.