Sky: a repository of adjectives
―land's fast mirror
―stripped of uniform
―thought to body.

Greece: a repository of alternatives
―Civilisation’s fast mirror
―never fully constituted
―thought to Europe’s body.

And all this water between us
―greasing the dialogue
―speeding up the dissolution
―co-operating.

Isn’t it always cooperative?
After all, the trickster
is nothing without prey;
the entrepreneur nothing
without an audience.

This all started as a song,
a song that built identities
then laws and empires,
fuelled by material wealth,
upheld by vague data.
Wherein the song was lost
and here we stand
on the crest of sound wave,
a vertiginous ***** before us
beyond which are better words
than the unfortunate love.
Given pressure and time we find
the impression of a memory
that has its end in a song.

Still rolling
With innocence

The times can ****
Your unborn heritage

Paper years
Still gather

The duty stopped
Before it's paid

What I have is a pitch
angled at nothing
and I envy the limber crowd of bees,
and I envy the spider’s easy meal.

The low hum of a wash cycle
competes with, then dislodges my dirge,
gradually builds a golden,
natural looking wan expression.

Diffident? Go out and meander
content to accept the indifference of meaning.
This walk is not a protest.
This work was only ever play.

Suitable for all skin types
our explanations can’t help themselves,
run like British accents on trade
and explain away any need for help.
Non-streaking conceits
you know best how much you are worth.

we use a cheap language full of facts
spools feeding nightmares
in our grisaille history painting a flat canvas
every thing reduced
the door said open
and you opened it

so much of what we are
is not about how well
we do it
but how badly
we want it
the promised future never came quick enough
and we are left asking…

the phone wants constant interaction
the builders drill, drive the caterpillar squeals
the kids on the trampoline howl
the dog whimpers like Miles Davis on his horn
a more authentic expression than
the smooth pop jingles
from a lost youth

zero — expression from nothing —
the background radiation —
the song of yes — I am — I want —
all this noise against the sense of lack
now we know why exhale follows inhale
and all things seek to return to their natural gravity —
observations will be made by the still articulate
of the tiny ecosystem of a forgotten pond
the silence after this will be immaculate

The rain gives way to blossoms and blossoms
give way to snow that never drifts but scatters.

In this way now the weather intervenes;
the legacy of a child’s breath upon a popsicle.

With only one hand on the steering wheel
we still find it hard to let go our designs;

a glance in the mirror of a mirage, of carnage?
The territory swallows us all the same,

only the precision of the map is at stake:
how well the landscape bends to the road.

To be lost in this world and not afraid
is a skill we have yet to remember;

to master life in the ruin of life: life
dissembling in the rings of the ash tree.

What looks like rot is just the caterpillar
giving way to the nascent butterfly

but not like your smile gives way,
breaks, before the latest tyrant.

1.

The light that agitates the equator
bounds across your southern frontier,

and being higher in the wage scale
enables trips there to be easier

than the odysseys of those passing
away in the opposite direction.

Where once bandaged soles went
now many machines tie the stitches

between the divides where once again
bandaged souls will traverse.


2.

Our footprint will be larger than life
and beat the earth to an abstract plain.

Where once many names were needed,
our editorial, read as obituary, will need few.

It’s a recursive gesture to prune in order to grow
but who’s hand truly closes the symphony?

Here I find legumes, tubers, a display of sage
and a cold comfort in my palm.

The perfect chicane of the fern’s stem,
tributaries unfurled, reflects in the plastic bucket.