Seismic Nought

They let me sit on turtles when I was tiny Squeeze up to the glass of hammerhead giants, Slurp on sea creatures and blow dandelions… We don’t exactly mirror the monkey But are closer than we think we might be and definitely as funny… Our obsession with movable things and lunatic flippancy… But our eyes, like the monkey, hold something bewildering - reaching . . . Eyes half like the whales of the ancient seas - possessing something purer, deeper to teach… Meanwhile the turtle jerks its head, creeping - slowly climbing their way through this world’s conflicted feeling… And the child that sat on their moving beach was carried a small cosmos - Like the wild horses under emerald-gold bods catching up with eternity’s calm clock…

Calling all killers of humanity… It’s time to leave quietly Yeah, you’ve been loud, but so have we… And our pain, our tears, our crowds are much grander than you’ll ever be… You see the more you curse us the more we feel … feel such rich absurdity - the real reactionary now assembling It’s time to leave quietly - ashamed and loveless… No room for beasts in our city of mapless - hand us the glove back Now you fall into the gaping hole of decay on the dead side, And we rise into the flourishing future fine - blossoming aqua - forever bright…

Last of the leeches… Could this be the last of the leeches? Could we pass through this desperately dying stage into a new age… An age with love, an age with warmth, an age with even more captured realness? No more room for a boy to be taught that they’re the official wheel that turns this… More time for ovals: no time for taradiddle Unravel our morphed industrial - to emphasise what’s crucial, like the oil paint swirls in calm river water or the shock of a cure for another… We know it could be possible, if we made one giant swivel You and I may be no storm, but they say that butterflies create the new norm… So let’s flutter with form, carry the sweetness on Till there’s no more misery for them to feed upon

So we let the vampires drain us into submission… Until we have no power to fight anymore Let them conquer our mycorrhizal networks, where special hearts and minds once helped us see beyond the abandoned treasure chest… Until our melancholy becomes desperately soothing like cocaine to a cancer Until we no longer speak it; just assume it - this feeling… We’ll stay half awake, but no more than this in-betweenness - Live just about comfortable enough lives where we can breed love through our offspring, as if it’s only an offering, an inkling rather than a way of being… So we’ll sit with our knives: focused, hearts heavy and ticking As if the only way to protect our children from the lie of the dim light that once flickered from the door is to kill the moth that made it and will one day come back searching… The knife’s easier to use than letting that child leave that room of shadowed walls; to test this world absent of fear, linking wings to our firing flutter form…

So this is how it ends; By them deciding for us how we end our lives As if this old world’s neglect is somehow the determining counterpart… By all accounts - we start

Horror slinky stolen flesh stamped with style - stencilled… His howls haunt the sky so pink and sedated… We sit in the fountain gardens: the blood’s greyscale and faded I wake up with a body open to a deal - I once had these giant chest pains like white hot steel- It’s half of what they feel… His putty expression {does he see these reels?!} Like the mirror speaks - can the camera bleed? We’re immediately caricatured and butchered by section… Counting faster to the dome bell that recirculates our senses…