south of a skyward stretch of mounts
lies England, green and white land
her towers felled by ducklings

her geese have joined the wild
the frayed cacophany
of a godless post-empire

now we stare at coffee pots
and think ourselves profound
while Ur's voice grinds a whisper

despairing through weary pixels
each stitch of the telegraph cable
buried in fallen time

and down through the maps
terrifying mutations ravage earth
hurling us far from apotheosis

till the last sod of root
dangles from a broken tree
our rage grows with it, each day
exposed

i'm a child
of the ocean

i'm a child of the waves
where nighttime is day

i'm a child
of uncertain parents

all i hold is my head
all i hold is my head

how am i still getting used
to your mourning elegance
even after so many breakfasts?
how many times have i
thought and forgot
about what matters most
and left our stomachs
growling cats
at the foot of a jungled coast?

in like lions and out like lambs
you ride the burgeoning tide
and hold the world-cross
in your hands
in your hands
made of fine and polished clay
what you offer i accept
what you say i must obey

counting dreams and memories
leaping high while sitting still
in my bed i am fine
until
the buzz of a nagging bee
reminds me
there is one who loves me still

all good things come in threes
so i venture to write a third
verse, without counting
any line or any word
so as not to be drunk on ink
but solely focused on an impression
an obsession
which has been growing and now
looses itself from rulebound chains
to love you as freely as any
green field born child

i have come
to the waters

i have come to the seas
for we to be free

i have come
to lament my glory

all alone that i am
all alone that i am

if the products of your despair
are relatable enough
they can make art

warm palm
backhand tattoo
cold cheek