Two Fragments

I –

The rain sets a gradient on greens
Old lithograph fade, with yellows
Flickering, charring them, peeling
As if cloud, slate dark depressed
Is absent mindedly flicking through filters.
But there is a joy to this substance
A chunky soup for the steaming
For the hungry, who evaporate within
Its vacuum of feeling.
Only at twilight, such a light.
After, the streetlamps pale as soggy
Worm corpses, settle on the streets.
I miss the phosphor orange glow
Of the days when I was younger.
Today, I miss it. Maybe not tomorrow.

II –

Pylons grew out of the flesh of the land
Iron bones of blood-rust thrust through
scaffolds to hold up the cloudsky – how
The rocks were insufficient now
Heaven has grown heavier and heavier,
only metal and electrics can halt it
since it dropped off hurtling downward
toward the cold earth’s blank plates.

The Ruin

A pair of frozen roads bear open the way to darkened ghost
A vast conference, buttressed; digested by wyrd
rotting down the weak membranes…

These stumps of graph-poles were trees once, now lain
‘mongst the ruins (of the work of the Giants, those atom-masons)
which decay

quantum-dust bends these gentle ruins
the strong force inside the crack-lines
vaporised the rooves for the drizzle-frozen infusion;
Age fallen over wyrm eaten wire.

What of the Movers and the Makers?
They are earth, and in dispersal
and dispersed again through their birth-genes, begotten
diffuse through the world, but dark.

Wall stood,
in clean air, red-bright stone with spider blood
drank the storms and took the lightning in arch hold
The wyrd earth push from out the stone, and the workers
grind stone holes.
Shining in fulness its make-work
and the heavy plastic sunk to loam crust.

Architect and human, the wily mason,
brought forth their rings and bound the base in copper
and functional awe.

Brilliant were the structures, kitchens where brook ran on call,
And plinthlike radios, filling air with white-noise.

These many alchohol houses, and homes were filled up
with calm dayfulness. Wyrd changed that.

Came days of ignorance, and all fallen bodies
Death starved the flower of personhood
where they stood to fight, waste places
and on the acropolis.
Those who would rebuild
are earth too, and vital no more, drained.
And these bones are but twisted arches, and skin tiles
precarious on the brain-ridge, tending to dirt…
disjointed species…

Here, where once many a Man,
vibrant and thriving and gold, in gleams garnished,
flushed with wine-pride, fashioning war-gear,
gazed on wrought gemstones, on gold, on silver,
on wealth held and hoarded,
stood paralysed before its self-burning,
in heady burg, brought low by these things hence
and shining science.

Stood glass-dwellings, wide cables welled
Hot from the coal-source, and Wall bound up
in its spark-white twining, to lend force to the water;
That was luxury…
. . . . . . . . . . .
Thence hot streams, loosed, pierced through the hoar-caps
Unto the web-work
…They were spiderly things…

[Based on an Old Anglo Saxon poem]