STONE LORDS
Our tall hats, sky scraping, cloud stirring,
Raking, forming, our tall hats.
Our black hats, cliff-crag dark,
Storm dark, night full.
Our black hats.
Given by the lords of years,
These moving towers, rocking.
These watchtowers,
These habitations of watchers.
Given us.
Watchers, sky-full of silence.
Hawk-bright shaded eyes,
Biding behind dark brows,
We bide,
Dark browed.
We need not hands to raise against.
Need not fingers to point.
Nor voice to accuse,
Nor clever, subtle speech,
No invective.
Poise, presence,
Inscrutibility fledged beneath
The stern circle of dark rim.
Tall hats, dark hats, bestowing gravity,
Beacons of authority.
Rock dreaming,
Injected, a bolus of catastrophe.
We, the chorus,
Mocking your wriggled evacuations.
We shall never, as you will, now
Pass distraught, hand-wringing,
Rote excuse for skin.
We shall never squirm nor flutter,
Racing thither on dismal errand,
Bending brightness to aggrandise vapour,
Bending sense, roping goodness,
Making slave-chains to chafe the free.
Oh, we see clear.
We see your oily wishes,
Your sly agreements.
How you stain the day.
How you stain.
Our tall hats
Shall follow your ways.
Watch us on the heights.
Watch us circle dark valleys.
Unencumbered vigilence,
Patient for judgement,
Implacable,
Undeceived.
May your tiny,
Malevolent souls,
Naked and revealed,
Shrivel.
May your rights
Recycle to the innocent.
May the wheeling carrion birds
Revolve and clamour
Til you no more sully
This earth, this sky.
May you relinquish your folly
Before it plagues and howls,
Extirpating your breathing memory.
—-
Born from a recounted dream of handless beings guarding the clifftops from the perennial parastic politicians who wore tall black top hats. Reminded me of the crags of the Preseli hills, the watchers of Easter Island, the tall astronomically accurate solid gold hats of the Neolithic,
Of the cairns and tombstones of the quiet places, of the attentive wariness of those without voice…….
the image is from an Iron Age Celtic coin that seems to show a storm or mountain deity
simonhlilly 
Conversations with Invisible Friends 10
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged commentary, conversations, Poetry, short pieces on February 26, 2014| 6 Comments »
DEAD EYED LIES
The politician shudder.
That particular discomfort in seeing a
bullshit take form,
that glorious automaton mismatch
between word and intent,
blank rabbit stare of
parroting the speechwriter’s doubletalk,
dead eyed professional lying.
Condescending chumminess.
Pickpockets and cudgels…
—
WONDERFUL
A wonderful madness.
Such a shriek as eloquent
Will once start a galactic spin,
Such spirit the spit of creation is.
A crackle of applause
From other gods and dwellers
In uncircumscribed bedlams
Who watch and savour,
Then try their shaking,
Laughing hands,
Their own worlds
To breathe into….
—
DISSIPATE
The world,
the long world congealed in the long years,
the filling up, the emptinesses,
the deserts, the wild winds of emotion,
the weathering, the withering.
All of us, if not before,
if not before,
will melt once again into the world,
Sun burnt,
moon cooled,
star hollowed.
A vapour, a word,
A wish fulfilled.
—–
TONGUE
It will be a gibbering,
an extinct language,
a map of lost continents
and drunken drowned pyramids.
It will be an hullucination of grey spaces,
the ramblings of a senile archbishop,
the over-elaborate orchestrations
of a genius fop.
It will be a universe distracted
by its own impossibility,
forced to invent a language
to replicate some linear order.
It will be a flash of poetry
flickered across a white noise screen.
It will be a ball
bouncing down an empty street.
It will be a simple rice bowl
explaining everything.
It will be radiant dust,
dancing.
—
ARTS
To extract from and limit chaos,
to select gestures, sounds,
to learn how the gods
prevent themselves from becoming demons,
to mimic daffodils and cloud,
to learn the controls of the mothership,
to pretend time and space
is not the problem….
—-
—–
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