raw

Hissing buckling shields 
pressing hot against my skin; 
Trapped in my defence.

~ beyond Chester

We crossed at the edge of the West 
from our wider plain / towards a higher fall; 

We crossed above the head of navigation 
leaving fertile plains / for the western fall…

We sailed at dusk, the tide in flood, 
our logic flawed, in baffled honesty; 
We held a course towards the outer islands – 
enticing, in their warm deceptive welcome. 

“Ourselves alone” was once the bitter warning, 
a harbinger of inwardness and violence, 
of sixty years of poverty to come… 
But now it echoes louder from behind, 
brayed by the problematic poster-boys of privilege, 
rotting from the head.

Turbine

Modernity crouched, constrained, 
the superheated pressure at its heart 
encased against itself to further power; 

Created in a symbol of the New, the turbine hummed, 
its power haunched to overcome resistance 
until it whispered into life… 

A mill-wheel of the giants, spinning under sight – 
its screams have spawned across the world, 
gorging on our hunger turned to greed 

While we trust in calculation, to be 
spared the whisker of vibration: 
a flaw that could not fail to kill us all. 

Clown

You shaggy haired buffoon!

You are a worm of inappropriate persuasion,
values lost in folded layers of falsity.
When they inquire into your conduct, how will you explain
that Eden was smarter than you, as was Chamberlain,
but vanity made you surpass their worst mistakes
without an ounce of their integrity?

Who chose you to be our future?
Nothing you can do is in my name.
There is a special place in hell for you…
Every thing that works for you is wrong
and you have brought your curse to dwell in us:
our futures dust, our cakes a hatchery for weevils…

If you were not a fool, you would have fallen
on your sword by now;  but seriousness is out
so we must fail instead.   And what of us?
We are benighted people, bewitched by fantasies,
choking on confections of a half-invented past.
No longer lions, nor audience; now mute accomplices.

Circling

Not one but three kites spiralled,
around – but not of – Easter;
prospering offshoots of an earth
sliced thin for easier consumption…

Three red kites circling overhead,
intent on every ritual of their hunt
to bring hot death to prey beneath,
oblivious, in our suburban gardens;

As they ride a rising wave of carbon 6 –
our alienated friend and profligate –
the sleeping dragon wakens, shifting,
shivering, raging at its wounds…