What happened up there?

Jack and Jill
went up the hill
to fetch a pail of water.
When Jack came down
he'd learned to frown
and Jill had lost her laughter.

Yaw and Split

Rust. It's not hard to see
the untimely slouch of metal wing.
Yaw and split. Rust
on the wing, musk on the wind
lurid to the nose,
bitter mingled (better mangled) with the fire of sweat.

Fear. It's not hard to see
the nervous grind of eyes on windows
hoping rust holds out
or rather
holds in the wind /
holds in the wing.
But if this fucking thing is going down
then I'm going to enjoy the ride.

Sex and Philosophy

warm sting of my flesh
aged sun untangles her hair
questions ribbon us

Wanderer Through the Cold Waste - pt. 1

Awake before the weak break of lichen moon
run aground against a cold coast.
Silhouette human
alone,
on hilltop, knifing in-
to sky underbelly, July thunder
bellowing. Clouds billow.

This landscape is
unfamiliar. Unfamilieu. Un-
heimlich:
hills lacquered pill white
cowled by gargoyle trees.

Something deeply troubling happened here.

His measured footprints calculate
the time taken to undulate
from snowtopped mound to frozen gorge.
Sixty eight
days, not a
minute less.
No other tracks pattern the snow.

Sunshine Bomb

Another grim old morning and grey.
Glacial clouds lumber, making
and unshaping fibrous fractures.
These veins pour lavender and cinnamon.

Sunshine acts as a wave-particle
duality, therefore both smothering
and bombarding the planet.
It fattens and bursts like butterfly pupa.

Somewhat Endless

Stop the clock
The ticking bomb
This fucking bullshit
Goes on and on and on and on
And on and on and on
And on and on and on
And on

Antigone: A Lesser Tragedy

Antigone raged at the failure of State
in putting its people below its ideals.
She danced her way to her burial place
and summoned the devil to strike a deal.

010110 Earth Undefined

I've written what seems like a million words
about flora, fauna and the inanimate earth
but sometimes the words melt into a mess
of strange squirls and stop making sense.

I begin to question, when I am alone
(because internal chatter is inversely proportional
to the amount of external chatter received),
the validity of their motivations.

After all it's not so hard to see
the overwhelming self-similarity,
a crude fractal topography,
between environmentalism and religious belief:

- actions defined by good and evil
- a strict system of morality
- a better place at the end of it all
- the drive to recruit more devotees

Like stars, God left a void when he died,
and we, like nature, fucking hate a vacuum
so we've scraped around finding replacements.
Like nukes before it, this is a science disasterpiece.

But apart from others, I need to question
the purpose of nature in my own writing.
Is it sprung from dungeons of passion
or cannon fodder for my own vanity?

Crass shouted that actionless sloganeering
is just another Punch and Judy show;
well I am Punch and my words are Judy,
and she's battered until my ego is sated.

The usefulness of eco-poetics in affecting anything
seems entirely negligable when environmentalism
itself wavers so dangerously close to the problems
that are the cause for crisis in climate identity.

Is it all just a stopgap until another religion,
some ugly child of Islam and Christianity
infused with the principles of eco-sciences,
grafts itself onto the skin of human society?

FUCK OFF ENVRIONMENTALISM. BRING THE EARTH.

The Blacksmith

Inside, the hammer and tongs spark
Where off the anvil comes
The cage around my blood
That keeps The Tiger pacing
In broken, aching circles
Gnashing on the impatient and restless bones
While the Nervous Blacksmith is waiting
To forge another lock
That isolates my hands
From the gifts I'm told are mine