We build mountains
from increments of time and motion:
timetables and places, placements,
placemats, play dates, the peripheries
and spaces where we keep the instruments
of living, sleeping, weaning, cleaning,
cluttered cadences and frequencies;
the sinusoidal blip of the commute, drip
drip of that annoying tap that’s never fixed,
forever fixed as a nostalgic milestone;
the friends we keep on promising to meet
and decades later still keep promising;
the turning moons and spinning constellations,
quantum clocks of choruses and choirs,
catechisms, cradles, graves, procrastinations,
precious rituals of likes and leftovers
all generously layered upon layer.
We build a mountain,
living in its shadow, even as the
other side is redolent with sunset.
Once, we hike up to the crest to see
the horizon before it eats the evening sky.
The Rage (from “Visions”)
His suit is ruined.
The monkey at the counter
Could care no less.
“Did all we could, sir
But we won’t pay out”.
No good, sir
Go home and cry it out.
He leaps across and tears her throat out with his teeth.
…The crowds of discontented souls behind him surge
And press against those hollow windows
That keep no promises yet cater every urge –
Until the whole anointed sham collapses
In indignation’s righteous purge.
But no… He sees his limbs
Are tightly bound and held
By tentacles of unseen end and no beginning,
And now the bloated ape across the counter, grinning,
Grabs him by the hair and turns his head –
And there, outside, the crowds of living dead,
As, in the dirt and seething stench,
Those discontented souls consume,
And are consumed by many
In an endless wretched feast.
And greying bellied demons, above the wretched seated,
Throw scraps into the heaving throng
And ghostly images of naked beauties
Distract the masses with their silent song.
…He stands and waits, his train is late,
He softly rhymes his stress and hate.
He knows that truth can still be spoken
And mirrors false can yet be broken.
– 0 –
Ever get that feeling when you’ve been done, perhaps even in a relatively minor way, but as a mere “consumer”, there’s just nothing you can do? Well for this piece I can thank Blossom & Browne, London’s finest dry cleaner, apparently, who screwed my best tailor made suit. Banal daily crap can result in something good – if you flip it right.