I've a feeling a hat's the knack
To relieve this life long bane.
What will I find this morning
Opening my curtains, I wonder?
Le vent, comme un ours, un géant
Nous surplombant se lève
These weren't clouds of cloud, no,
They were clouds of drizzle
I saw this morning in a field
A crow, a roe deer and a magpie.
Illustrators with limited palettes
Would have you believe the foxes in the woods
Are as orange as workers in high-viz jackets.
The night in kindness yawned and gave way to blue sky
Leaving but a piece of itself, shaped like a bird.
Oh mild mannered commuters, miscreants
Of the rush hours: own it. Oh you door
Pushers, cut-throat seat grabbers
Ventilated data farms for naive electro-sheep is what's in store. Not me, no more.
Those who die young won't
Melt in the rain but bring a million queer
Hearts to their grave
Bodies immaculate for the cyber
Punks of yonder; the great ejaculate
Consumed the rebel base.
Les besoins effervescents de la nuit d'adolescent, coincé dans le lit parental, dans l'HLM paumé de la cité qui brûle
The heart however is a more porous
Matter. All that fluid fleshy gurgling
Of metronomic proportions aside.
Let us love while we can, at the hem of the Titanic while it's allowed, fast is we must.
Je m'réveille d'une vie que j'croyais contemporaine
À l'abri dans la grande enclave métropolitaine,
Les vagues se fatiguent, se rendent lentement
Aux jetées de ciment placées en leur chemin
Par des négociants oubliés
Take it for granted, then, the sun. Right now
What else is there to do? Lie on the beach
And believe in mercy
I don't want a second chance.
I'd rewrite and covet every last flirt
To be what? A shallow summer fiction.
Crooked bearded men in dusty old hats
Dreaming the tavern of a thousand dung,
Where in a corner alone with her cats
And of his fist an unkempt cop pries out
A torn up card. A clue for what it's worth
Tricks him to that late night bar, to that shout
Then there's the one by the skip, deemed unfit,
Left for dead. It has hinges to hang on,
And a handle, and hopes. So long, they said.
It used to be that swallows brought spring.
Nowadays, I think, it's trains.
The water is cold and you go elsewhere
For showers. The neighbours politely snob
Your skipped cauliflowers. Summer moves in.
Life is the smile you offer when we share
A childish tease. Life is the universe
We touch, hand in hand in the coming breeze.
It's Friday night,
Children of France, and a line of red lights
Is slicing the slow downs of Brittany.
There is a park in Aldgate, a small one,
The kind you forget. This is where we met
In the rain, in April, in days gone by.
Why are you crying by the green waters
Of the Thames? Was it the weeping willows
That inspired you so? The blue-grey skies?
"In the sky", said the moon, "our sadness is rain.
Your story: a dark storm. Oh such hurt and such pain!
First a mouth, curious eyes and a little nose;
Watch it now, how keenly it grows!
They perch above us,
on the roof of a house,
the corner of a building,
the top of an arch.
It was a sunny day and it jarred with her mood; but that was preferable to the cynicism of the network.
The network was organic, the vector linguistic, the virus normative. It still runs to this day.
As I start to drift away again, someone knocks at my door. I hesitate and the knocking comes again, more insistent. My legs start on their own.
I took apart,
It broke my heart
November is like being 15 - it's too late to turn back, and you just sit on a stool, mistaking emotions and performance with reality
There were no zombies. This was an invention of the authorities. We were happy so we stopped working and we started hanging out in the streets.
Live in the moment - and if the moment is day dreaming, if the moment is autumn's mischief of beauty and splendour, live that as if there was no other.
Elsewhere, unaware, in an office, a meeting room is full of people vainly arguing about their work, as if it actually mattered.
Fame is a hungry machine, and the mind laughs at loosing it's individuality for another's ; the hypocrisy of democratised branding.
Little spider smirks, and moves swiftly under the cupboard. “This will be my home”, thinks little spider, “and these will be my humans”.
But it's spring,
I know it's spring,
And my step is light,
And my heart is playful.
there is also pain there, suffering that seems to justify the world like an addiction. The drive, the repeated fulfilment of small
Adventures finish somewhere, always, and we're on the moon, battling with swords, bright as clarity, deadly.
Tears, paper sharp -
like a million cuts as they reach towards me;
their pain, my kingdom
The vessel, the dream keeps me happy and safe. It hapens that I look overboard to see where reality is.
I want to see all of it
But there is hate I feel
At night the streets are lit
To hide and to reveal
Instead ? We just waste all our time running around because we are being chased by zombies.
There was too much hate, too much pressure, too many narratives in which I was wrong.
The blade of her sword finished it's long arc right where he landed, cracking, creating a fountain of blood, bright red mixing with the pale, sun-bleached earths.
everyone waiting for the next breath, the next beat, not knowing why it isn't there nor where it will come from.
I stand here, years later, as the world, perpetual, immobile, cries it's endless tears, tragic and lifeless. All I have left are memories I can't mourn.
Is this a war, the continuation of a war, the resurfacing of a disequilibrium ; is fighting the police worth fractured communities, are we all responsible ?