The cold warriors are dying –
amongst events they slip away
like the crackle of a spray can
and its hiss which turns to a roar

The cold warriors are dying –
the second movement of Dvorák
lingers in the musky swampland
of Florida, among torn flags

The cold warriors are dying –
falling away one by sad one
like mist withdrawing from windows
leaving thin dilemmas for drips

The cold warriors are dying –
their children are melancholy
unsure quite what this means to them,
despite, of course, that soft fizzing

The cold warriors are dying –
for arguments cannot outlast.
The eyes of history open
and see streaming neon glazes

The cold warriors are dying –
gears that have not turned for long years
shift and let off streams of gold rust…
Things are glowing with potential


Jesus appeared in the wild fire
when notre dame burned. Soon after,
the Buddha appeared in concert
in the soft ash. At the same time

a vast nothingness was noticed
in signals sent from deep inside
the galactic hub, and even
now, gods are appearing each time

a realisation is made. Too
vast are the required energies
to control this haptic coupling.
A flower budded and angels

were born again as the bee struck
semaphoric. A wheel ran out
over a rabbit infant and in
the red sin, a devil snuck through

to haunt that stretch of sparse grass patch
on Nought Bank road, for all time
has this dual aspect. The moment
and then the word and in this gap

gods sneak through like small particles
in a compound solution seep
slowly along differentials.
The gap in the real is endless