Accosted by a dark new mood
after a dream involving fire
towering above the georgian
terraces, and Bon Iver grown
cold and unfeeling, exploiting
my love of their music for cult
ritual aims. A horror dream.
I sit and feel real horror, as
the dull news legitimises
violence with a short sound bite
‘I’m just saying what everyone’s
thinking’ and that’s that. What the fuck.
I can’t defend such a robot
action (in the Czech sense) – playing
clip after clip of glob brained dullards
who believe solely in themselves
like a kind of solipsistic
brick, thrown through the window of my
mind. The clouds darken but the bright
and constant thereness of all things
is there like a bed for my brain.
Insects want platform for their buzz.
Insects can’t abide the changing
language. Insects click and stutter