Welcome to Wharved, weary web wanderer! You’ve come across my neck of the woods, a cozy place where wooly socks are always preferred when sitting in front of a fireplace near the afghan hound trying to sing along to a song that Alan Lomax did his best to preserve.
The absurdist poem is a quick snapshot of a scenario that may or may not have developed throughout the course of history, a scenario that has the potential to happen or not happen for the rest of recorded history (and beyond). Nobody knows when things really began for us, though religion and science have brought us to have something of an understanding, and nobody knows when the final curtain will fall on our species’ performance. We can only speculate as to what kinds of encounters or mind frames people will have or have had–each is entirely unique to the moment of its creation, captured in the spirit of getting while the getting’s good. To let a moment go uncaptured would just be cruel if you subscribe to this philosophy.
The name Wharved is a made-up word, a false conjugation of “wharf” that would not exist in the universe of written word, were I not to rescue it from the abyss.
Join me in my quest for spontaneous creation, would ya?