Posts Tagged ‘misdirection’


Bright fragment of morning,
this view,
not all,
but sufficient to pause and breathe,
soaking in time,
a flavour hardly remembered,

The layers of this, a riddle
Unfolding, rambled,
Conjured, tranced,

Fleeing far from home,
We wander about
For pastel dream.

Unable to re-insert,
Wriggle into that,
We cluster, eyes dreamy,
Around flaming fires
‘Til they smoke and splutter,
And we stretch, ache-limbed,
Search for farther fuel.

To stave the rain
We coccoon in caves,
Freeze dust and mud,
Roof in stone,
Limit light,
Fabricate, imitate, colour,
Desire to own our own,
Where, we say, the heart is.
A hope more habit,
More prison, more excuse,
Than our tiny world allows.

To return to
After filling time
Wasting time,
Validating use
In useless works.
A headlong career,
Slippery, cold, gravy train,
Glutinous, pasting days,
Covering over the cracks,
Crevasses of blue depthlessness,
Fractures within the slick logic.

To avoid that rupture
The mind replaced, time left over filled
With the chattering jingled dreams.
No need now to think,
All image offered up:
The screen of wisdom
Around whom we
Are satillites,
Failing to see
Our own burning wings,
The flicker of time
Eating timelessness,
Eating alternatives.

Clouds fill the day,
Sun and moon
Tell us all.
We float, evaporating,
Watching weather forecasts.

We have slipped between words
Singing inane hymns
To drown silence.
We who were born
To swim
The silences
Between moments
Between stars
Between heavens and hells,
To be at home,
Though homeless,
And singing,
In and out,
Seer and seen,
A field flowering,
Fragrant perception.

No longer fighting angels,
We become surrogate.
Subdued, swaying,
Conveniently untroubled,


sparked by a quote by Derrick Jensen, and a post by Ruth at:


These words consider the layers of shell, of desire for a tangible home, a longing for belonging, the dreams fabricated within dreams. Mazed, chasing butterflies off cliffs….

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Surely it cannot be sustained,
This comfort resting on the back of lies.

Etiolated, we stretch tall and wan,
Straining to leave behind every root, even.

Hungry for withered light,
This forced flicker of cloud vapours, this promise of better,
This regurgitated psychology.

Every home in each mausoleum city:
A crowded tomb where the living stumble mummified,
Salivating new updates.

All the small gods gone,
Growing potatoes and beans in hidden valleys, forgotten,
Resigned to wait.

Only the blustering bullies remain, the greedy,
Insistent on their protocols, their visions for growth.

A short experiment. Forced fruits. Temptation
Of full ripeness turning to ash, turning to dust.

Make way. Make way. We study the death of stars,
Anaesthetised, unaware of irony.

Remove from us our craft
And we shall all become beggars, lost, drowning sorrow
In rainbow-stained pools, slow and viscous folds.

They stretch tall and limp, loud, enabled.
Their magic: monotony and ennervation.
Their ropes, their chains: the promise for better times.

Inertia, the slow, wearing away, the blocking of roads,
The pinching, the slighting.

We retreat from day, back to our tombs.
Too tired, even, for our own dreams, we collapse into parody.

Etiolated, we stretch thin and will soon wither.

Somewhere near,
The small gods dig rocky soil and wait.

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