The future doesn’t exist
only the moment exists, and the moment
is the moment of despair that the future does not exist.
There are no hopes
There are only desires and deepest of those
the desire to have hopes.
I ride the bus back from town
having achieved a slight melancholy
and bought things I did not need
when I should have been saving
for the future I do not have.
Love once tore my head open
and everything inside fell on the ground.
Now, I feel no love.
And my head remains empty.
such is time’s slow dripping
and the cloud moves toward the horizon.
Should I be angry? No.
Should I want
Note to this poem: this is not really what I am feeling. In reality the hopes I have are what has led to a situation with an inbuilt lack. But of course, we are fundamentally messed up due to the situation we find ourselves in. Maybe it is that the deepest hopes we have can send us into a jammed cog situation. That our estimations of the world are systematically wrong in a way that functions as an excuse to continue in an equilibrium that leaves us in a bearable situation, even if that situation is dead and jellyfish like. Maybe a moment of decision deferred is like a coagulant.
In the beginning, something was destroyed
at least it seems that way
and something else rose outwards.
Sky-sized waves follow the instant
an ocean meteor impacts, and ricochet –
the planet at great speed becomes
Something Else – because all ends
are also beginnings, no law is more
certain. What more do things have to say
about destruction – all else is lists
of the long fall of the satellite from orbit
and the short cracks as the overhang weakens
the instant a fish first knows the harsh net.
In my end is my beginning
Is false because the I must end
For something else to begin – materials
work upon themselves some magic
which brings others to the house party
where clear sands contain rotten liquids!
Our whole civilisation is a harvest
of destruction, even in its peace, when
blackbirds sing the lay of the worm’s
redescription in branches in the sun.
And nature also, this vast restructuring
where some shapes lose what others
gain – a magpie flies as the sun dips
its smooth light onto the striated oak
and on and again until the end of this
and the beginning of something else
and we can’t often tell the difference.
Considered with reference to bodies
Standing water, in the cold night
reflects the crisp moon,
thin stars in the eye’s quiet corner
In its shallows the dark leaves rot
starving greens and wriggling things
’til stillness reigns
There is only so much you can get
from a reflection –
just ask these dying flowers on the shore
But a river – god damn it
just look – look at that flow
It goes where it wants to
But slip up, take a photo
and there! It’s a pool again.
For gods’ sake delete it
Let us leave all our still disasters
a night of stars, devastated
without their flutter, their refocus and shift
and lay paper puppets, torn and sullied
by the fire which crackles with time
and burns with everything you needed
crystal latticed books
interface in halls
so vast the humans
have been lost, always.
Every sentence starts
and ends with a whole
life, a human life,
and in the centre
the books turn about
a spine – which is real
human spinechord cut
and spun from the tears
of ancient servers.
You do not ‘read’ books –
You must choose but one,
and it only seems
that way – in cold fact
it was built for you.
So tear your heart out
at the plug – thousand
eras dawn and die
to build its climax;
it is perfect life.
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.
In the background things pass away
making a noise like dark fire
crackling. We go around nudging
remains into the embers with
our feet. There, fragments of wire lie
structures once rocked back and forth. Life
burns and brings sadness. The brambles
are so green but in the fire, lines
of red-gold crisp light steam and curl
around the blackening leaves. Feel
the substance behind beliefs fall
away and reveal the golden
embers and their heat that can sting,
as the smoke curls up around you
wherever you walk round the flames.
On the drive home, it turns out that
the universe conspired to build
Nick Drake so he could soundtrack this
night. I feel complete in the car,
with the moon, moon, moon, moon, and me.
As I turn the corner to home,
I see the subtle moon, pink haze.
The record sleeve hangs in the real.
I can’t wait to fall asleep, soft
and slow as a cloud dispersing.
With that ache and contrast shift where
things disappear and become blur,
words disconnect and disengage
and the images dance amongst
the silence. When mouths open, then
the silence deepens. I can’t find
the werewithal to concentrate.
I am a lizard with a tongue
slipping out fast to taste the air
in a desert and my light muse
water has been destroyed by sun
scratching its fingers over all,
leaving hot and cracked marks. Scuttle
into shadow, and soon the cold
is within. I can’t think to do
anything. I lie in the warm
glow of the new LED bulb
and stare at the ceiling. The word
approaches when, failing to find
my muse, I fall backwards in the
dark, and the she catches my shoulders
in an eldritch trust exercise.