Disconnected, an instability pervades it all:
facts fell, even before; but now they disappear.
The close-cropped ground itself has changed,
shape-shifting us to drift in stranger days –
although we nod hello, or pass a word or two
… while walking, as we reprise remaindered memories
in closed and finite loops of rhythmic rumination,
trying (too hard) to make sense out of change,
we furrow in eccentric isolations; untouched,
to bake our bread with shriveled yeast, lacking any flour…
… while we lurch from clutching-straw to breaking-straw
in days chained end-to-end, unmarked by rituals or events,
from which the guiding rope, the warp and weft have gone,
replaced by estimated metres’ distance; leaving
a semblance of society, with awareness shaken loose…
It’s now a desert spring, perhaps;
or continental (since we are no island in this main):
of clear skies, warm days, cold nights…
where magnolias reach up towards magnificence
and cherry trees and hawthorns, and apples mixed with pears
cascade promiscuously in pink and white undress
on empty close-cropped ground / unpurposed /
reminders of a world once-shared;
hedged in by beech that thickens with intensity,
curled and pent and weeks away from springing
against birches, silver-lit and black and thin,
etched stark and fine across an ice-blue sky
~ improbable in clarity ~ and wholly out of reach ~
Refreshing sight but lacking touch,
this hollow shadow spring evolves
while distance spreads around us…
No time for sanctimony;
never mind hypocrisy.
My heart rose because yours slowed:
You were a complete eejit
who harmed our country greatly
in the cause of your career.
But you’ve bluffed against the devil’s dice.
Maybe hell will mend you now.
Red streaks drew down our walls.
Reddened claws of tiger stripes
threatened weaker life in rustling breaths,
choking, culling an unlucky two percent
Except: solicitous, draconian and officious,
the wardens flourished, doubling day by day;
While hoarders, panicking, insidiously
unmasked a national myth of fortitude;
While travellers were condemned, because
maybe, just maybe, well you never know;
While living was suspended altogether
so none at all would ever have to die…
Fevered, we shivered, until reality returned.
Witness: a convulsion in the biome
affecting human life; our brilliant, fragile
human life, drowning in its fear.
Davros plotted. The country sank or swam.
The emperor paraded his new clothes
and celebrated – a new heir, carried by his paramour:
the sixth? or seventh?? or maybe eighth in line…
Absent oppositions disarrayed.
Pretty raged. Aeroplanes still flew.
Numbers flailed, miscounted, multiplied,
pretending they could disappear.
Panics surged around the borders;
trembling fevers magnified, then compounded.
The country sank into a swamp.
droplets in the air,
suspended in a pattern;
waiting for meaning
I felt the scented smoke of chestnuts burning
among the clinging reek of old damp leaves,
hazy, catching at my breath,
falling to the bottom of my lungs;
while I ripped up the tracks of my life behind me
as I walked, a purpose in itself,
half-lame, within approximate direction;
cast out – or walked away – from our chosen home…
Searching for the borders of community
but lacking any risk of crossing into “theirs”…
It’s complicated, as they say,
containing layers on layers and mysteries –
such as how the crank and dumb and ill-informed
and leaders unfit for truth can conquer –
while the future ebbs away across the water,
decisions turning water into oil and oil into distress…
and Demos flounders, self-absorbed and slavering
over brazen idols, especially devoted to their feet of clay ~
~ Forgetting those who’ve shared our pains,
against whom we found ourselves by misadventure.
I am lying low, a little low, for now.
Goodbye to you, two thousand and nineteen,
without regrets. A year that fled:
lived through in disarray –
nothing new or unexpected there – except
it let those bastards steal the future,
taking out a mortgage on their souls
redeemable against our children’s lives
Goodbye, two thousand and nineteen:
My beloved dog outlasted you / but only by three days
Sliding down a ladder-worth of concepts
from my makeshift eyrie in the sky –
blown almost-out-of-mind while scanning
the horizon for some-or-other threats –
I fell into the glue-pot, push-of-pike
across the ditch and sticking-in;
to make progress from day-to-day,
perhaps in the direction of tomorrow?
enabled, when I stabbed an ice-axe
in the bones, the skull, of a beholder;
A clear-cut fall from grace, back-lit
against its own disfiguring defaults
Futures torn away
while the planet burns or sinks;
Choking on excess …