It is the fly that is manic, reeling about in 3-dimensions, while I, the greater animal, sit in stillness, contained inside the parameters of my own composure. It is the fly that is mad; air-crazed wild longing for more space while I, the superior organism, sit here doing crosswords as my muscles atrophy. The fly, insane with desire, smacks its small body against the sheets of glass we erected to better control things. The ducks are fat with bread and service. The cow snacks on garbage. The moth heads towards an artificial moon. The fly, circling for some 30 minutes, distance divided by body size, has walked Land's End to John O'Groats some hundred times, while I, the top of the food chain, sit flexing my brain and index finger, blinking. Keyboards with half the letters missing, soft heels, untested hypotheses, love songs that mean nothing, the absence of vowels, avatars, systems of measurement; this is what they'll uncover as they sift through the limestone. It is the fly that is mad, with its instincts and impulses, slave to its body, futureless and free, while we, the accumulation of all evolution, classify another sub-group of mental disorders and drink tea.
.
Monday 26 March 2012
Sunday 25 March 2012
Trouble
Trouble comes and its shape is unknown.
It is thyself she says.
But we have our doubts.
Trouble comes and its shape is doubtful.
It is the unknown she says, it is of that you are fearful.
Trouble comes and we greet it in the night.
It has snuck in because the door was ajar, because we turned all the lights out, because we left the dishes stacked up in a waterless sink, tried to forget until morning. It worries our necks with persistent tautology. We awake to red scars the shape of doubtful, self-inflicted fingers.
Trouble bellows. The noise interrupts our fitful sleep, vibrates weakly bonded eyelids. Eyes open to darkness. The heavy disappointment that follows a scream. We appeal to the sun. Eardrums ring with the sound of humanity. A bed the size of an ocean. Tides of sweat crashing against our shorelines. Lifetimes erode as the night bows out. And again. And again.
.
It is thyself she says.
But we have our doubts.
Trouble comes and its shape is doubtful.
It is the unknown she says, it is of that you are fearful.
Trouble comes and we greet it in the night.
It has snuck in because the door was ajar, because we turned all the lights out, because we left the dishes stacked up in a waterless sink, tried to forget until morning. It worries our necks with persistent tautology. We awake to red scars the shape of doubtful, self-inflicted fingers.
Trouble bellows. The noise interrupts our fitful sleep, vibrates weakly bonded eyelids. Eyes open to darkness. The heavy disappointment that follows a scream. We appeal to the sun. Eardrums ring with the sound of humanity. A bed the size of an ocean. Tides of sweat crashing against our shorelines. Lifetimes erode as the night bows out. And again. And again.
.
Cycles
Cycles
the wheel was invented so
we could keep coming back here
day turns to night and
that sweat isn't mine again
something in your face
pushes me back like a tide
a beach full of eyelashes
i'm running, collecting them
but only when the water is low
and i can't see your eyes
nor you mine
because then we wouldn't want to hold hands anymore
and all of the pebbles on the beach would turn to sand.
.
the wheel was invented so
we could keep coming back here
day turns to night and
that sweat isn't mine again
something in your face
pushes me back like a tide
a beach full of eyelashes
i'm running, collecting them
but only when the water is low
and i can't see your eyes
nor you mine
because then we wouldn't want to hold hands anymore
and all of the pebbles on the beach would turn to sand.
.
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