“As old as man, Way back before the past…” Said by the historian in the perpetual cemetery, His book and ours open on the same blank page “What is to become of us, we are just memories of sound in a silent room”
The image of man Tearing down his own tower of babel with an “Eloi!, Eloi!” to himself Grasping at the light Without thought of the fire All felony and no fingerprint forever
And I watch And I watch And after my illness, I walk alone And notice the words of children collecting sun in a bucket
To 80 years from Spanish misery To Syrian sand and tears Mixing with the shores of ****** and Liverpool, London and Lemuria Nothing gathered Nothing gained
We slip further into the walls of parliament Slip into the walls of web, corridors of code And hear of occultist cataclysm and those so intelligent all before them is dismissed (“eloi, eloi, I am eloi!”)
In cold grey-green bathrooms of flatblocks or apartment buildings licking seasalt and gunpowder from the fingers of our Atlantic cousins In human skin suits
a rough version of something long worked on. some inspiration from an Ian Bellard line.