The Fates - A Decima Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos, they spin, they weave and thus create Ancient Grecian Laws of Fate, the mythos of all gain and loss. Their Mum, Ananke, Dad, Chronos, sired these adolescent spinners crafting for the good (and sinners) lies of self determination, camouflaged predestination. They fete nor losers nor winners.
Haiku - Weed and Dust The symbol was clear: a perfect ellipse where I had weed in the dust.
Diaspora However tall your ships were, how long they took to reach your chosen shores, could they contain intact your beating hearts, swollen with leaving, aching with imminent arrival; the slow salt haul on following seas? Were prayers said daily, attempting to appease those Catholic gods, their shapes reminiscent of wet lands you left in colder parts particularising rain? Did you pack your laws, clutch them closely, like an Irish song? How do we gauge the sorrow leaving brings but by a return in our imaginings.
The Rock and Basalt Lava Party Here's the politics of it - An election every million years, manifestos erupting in white heat, volcanic debate, a honeymoon period the birth of a small star. The electorate canvassed among bleached stones; polling on cadaver care, how crematoria perform, were targets met for erotica in Pompeii and was Krakatoa merely PR. And when ash, like a broken promise, settles on still, silent lands, who will ask for a recount to trouble democracy's sleep?
Hibernation The garden is sodden now, these days of rain creating pools our boots splash in. I see you watching the falling rain from our bedroom window. The electric blanket's on. Perhaps we'll winter here.
Bliss - A Decima These days I'm wont to reminisce on hours achieving happiness, swerving consequent crappiness. It certainly would be remiss to diss the side effects of bliss, the coming down from such a height whilst grasping at it's fading light. All highs have their own aftermaths, some are benign but some, bloodbaths, two hundred degrees Fahrenheit!
Breakfasting on Worms If you rise before the sun - (when dawn is still a dream you had, unclaspable, where reason ends, before the rote of compliance begins, before the language of constraint unstops, acting out the all too rational; a wage to earn, a meal to cook, children's needs to tend, the diction of No, after you and various similitudes designed to coalesce around the sociological) - you feel the pre-dawn less than dark fizzing somewhere interplanetary. And through this percolation the Earth's curve courses, hieroglyphics of expunged soil cast like prayers upon the plains. Too soon, tangents of light precurse the onset of a sober day, our dark worms sleeping off the sun.
The constant drip, drip,
drip of misinformation
makes me scream...DROP DEAD!
What It's Not and What It Is It's not the sun that rises. It's not the moon that sets. It's not the stars all tipping On towards the West. It's not the blackbird singing. It's not the howling dog. It's not the fox attempting Cartwheels in the fog. It is the darkness looming. It is the passing sense. It is the abolition Of the present tense.
Captain Swing A Haiku Shelter with me here where the fires cannot reach us, scorching now the earth. A Decima The history of Captain Swing is told in tales of burning ricks, machine destruction, polemics of resistance imagining a better world and songs that sing of full employment, profits shared with labourers, all those who cared to question if the status quo was fit to see a nation grow, those who rebelled, when few had dared.