When you are exposed to the beams
and the wind of the universe
blows through you, you may still seem
to walk, but you are dust, and thus
the skeleton you are stands still
in the dark, surrounded by dirt
and the wind blows and the air falls
to rest in lungs and waters. Hurt
and defeated your body melts
and returns to first and last things
as tears that glow blue trail their salt.
The air itself was on fire, sin
of the knowledge of our kind. Hell
was not real, but we made it real
and now it clicks and clicks and all
would do well to fear it. I feel
a kind of horror, this grey light
that is born out of new dangers
which make old metaphors apt; tired,
blind, the will to power failed us
as Pandora lay in a ward
this blue chord burned into her eyes –
the small moth that had once meant more
that came last, was burned in the fire.
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
Worry fills the air, it has always filled the air.
In the dark crouched under a cliff edge, clutching
close our churchly comforts, curling
fingers round our hope and hurting.
In bed caressed by muster horns of a great storm
our worries go riding out over the top of the trenches
gunned down by the thoughtless
death-machines, our dreams turned nightmares,
teach us mercilessness to utopian thinking.
We live on the thin red line which hedges provisionally
the gap between dystopia and the real.
We see burbling spitting demagogues
rising from the ashes of war and despair,
And wait for nothingness to dry
like mould in the bathroom
peeling into oblivion and resting on a stone floor,
forgotten by the universe,
not marked by a single smile, but marked
by a single frown or dry tearduct. No.
Our challenge, our tribulations and trials
are but one – to keep the bleeding faith
in life, sharp teeth gritted –
to stand high above the wave and teach it
like lightning it lacks a purpose we fulfil!
To dance in the fire like fire and lift
our friends up, and the weak,
(who are strong but if they can flow
like mercury among the other metals)
Say, drudgers, worriers of the world, rise up,
you have nothing to lose but your fear
We have the stars to win.
And if one day, sun rising
on a field of red martian grass,
disaster comes, we will deal with that disaster –
shuffling our cards and smiling at the draw:
We keep the red fire and pass it on,
whirling and dancing from soul to soul
lift the handful of dice and play your role,
forging and reforging humanity from the sparks
and defying the world to fall.
Get angry, get warm, and never bow.
Never bow at all.