hexagonals

London, UK

New beginnings ticking dangerously in the dark.

Though apparently, these days they don’t - they vibrate.

Then it’s destroyed on a tarmac. All orange safety vests

And hollow-points.

We don’t imply ownership.

It’s not that we couldn’t,

it’s that when I see the blue flash of your eyelid -

too much make-up, too little guile -

I want to start a beat with you

There and now again.

But let’s not tell. Fall at your feet and say

rosaries till the necklace is worn through.

I’ll not pretend that a formality can cross us

but it’s something this day.

As we bounced round black-box hexagonals

and corralled chairs in dark flashing corridors

lit by laughter and cell-phone glow,

I thought of empty stops and tragic stations

where no one gives orders anymore.

Briton

Stalking through the Heath you can feel ancient Briton,

kept quivering and suppressed under concrete and hedgerows

like rabbits-feet used to ward of a Boudiccan scream or

the lashing of some dark druidic rite.

There’s not enough red-brick pieces in all the land to build a Jerusalem here –

just a fleeting deer’s tail arcing off into some half-remembered forest,

its Soul still grumbling mightily over continental castration.

There are still Pans here, despite the coat-of-arms on every sign,

dancing their way round deep corners on acorn carpets.

It’s Eldric: a sense of the Faded People,

of disinherited paganism and a near-world populated by God’s

to early dead and to easily forgotten to be real anymore.

Were they ever here? Did we invent steps in the dirt as we huddled to the hearth?

Sought more than wonder in a Stag’s nobility,

found horror in the blood of sacrificial superstition...

made our god as we would have them been not as there were once,

striding glens and moors as the heroes of a story no longer told.

By way of explaination

So this is a 'poetry blog'...

I'm uncomfortable both with the idea of poetry and of another blog filled with adolescent scrawls and self-pitying linotypes.

But we'll see. See if anyone finds it. Or if I send them here...

rusty

It’s the Disciple's turn to

walk out on loaves and fished

seeking benign solutions

to mottled-plague problems.

Time over-rules elegy and

despite this deep notation we’ll

be left with pottery and

praxis when gods come calling

in sand-storm chariots

>>>>

Tapistry as sophistry

Beatings as betterment

Corollary as carapace

Night as day

and deep moon-shine

spotlights to a patina play

>>>>>

I can’t drink this one away. Then it was

pints, now lattes does the different foam

have bearing on this current latitude or

more a circumvent rush to move

spice around dark horns and deep

insecurities. obscurity rears again seeking

to render hollow my crude attempts

at clarity – a vision dispersed between

cracks and marked un-reachable

through a twist of fate and metal

sheeting – You’re rusty again and it

shows.

beat

I wanted to see how the spiral connects to the praxis