Against Metaphysics

Do not debase yourself – you are gold, and you know
you need only find the ones who will hold you as standard.
And see how we die, how we weren’t designed for this living;
or designed at all, apart from a certain sketching.
This earthly fact need not ashcut our hair with sorrow,
though of course it may do for a moment, a haunting phase:
learning the blood and the tears that rest in salvation
not dropped from above, in a white hot holy inferno
of passionate revenge. No, these great tears are ours
believer, as we bear up the world on our backs, and build
our commune here on earth, our only connection
where we tie our authority, where we decide on our lives.
Not alone; these golden souls around us glimmer
as we pile together in a vast open treasure of days:
supporting each other as water clings to cold water
thundering slow as a star, and frantic reshaping
it glints – over the falls and out into darkness;
this thunder is pure, this thunder is gold in its forging.
Our blood belongs too, born in a mythical foundation
of life in the dawning of sacred human electrics –
we do not need more, we only need thriving, and others
a group of bright people called wonders who help us our way
to shore up our breathing, our justifiable madness
at having to live in a world that we have made,
which teaches us we lack the spinning centre: We.
The people who beat the heart of humanity’s pace?
This is the horror, the shock and the shame of those
who project with intensity, blinding sovereign light
on the walls to blind us, this is why it takes time –
so learn we can float, calm on our backs in the sea
of a disc, on the back of four elephants, looming calm
on the back of a turtle, ponderous floating through space.
Glowing human structures support this crowing communion,
and yes there is violence, but here in the gaps inbetween,
which like air are so hard to avoid, and yet so hard to see
lie the softer gradients of all of the earthier pleasures –
a glass of water, a book, a handshake, a look in the eyes,
a cuddle, or more, at dawn, a song, a joke, or a poem,
a long conversation, a cry, and some faith in your friends.
Ask not for justification, for there is no need.
We are great enough. This you can believe.

Secularium

The atheist, too, remains able to honour the dead.
Visit hallowed places, facing the casket and questing,
the concrete presence of the particular place, to remember
The chances of life and its radiance challenging all.
We honour an arrangement, continuing its physical trajectory
by placing our bodies to mediate humanity’s lore –
Barely under the surface, dark movements, the chemicals
guide potentials to work and material echoes which sigh –
Surrounded by white-stone, skin stretched and face left as an imprint;
twin dark shadows and the mouth which supported the thing.
The ripples fell out, and curling their tendrils about us,
brought us back to return them close to the bright path that sent them –
now dim in the grave where its dull glow makes us into rays.
We worship ourselves, in a reverence, humility, and pray.
Wordlessly, we wait, and bask in celestial company –
silence, the mark of the stars which remain all too distant,
is our heartbeat, our faith in the real, and our thoughts – we reclaim.
Our tears thus held back, our earth, our hope, and our revery,
stood holding our soft inspiration close, and developing
the state of our souls – our love – its plans and its treasury;
the quiet potentials of the human mind, sparking
in the tomb of our old friend, or those who we never knew.
We are open to past lives, accept their gifts, and renew.