Our Solemn Duty

That is such a dreadful word.
It spoils life
trying to make it s     t     r     e     t     c     h
lasting forever.
Film conveys a kind of spurious eternity
viewing, self deceiving & indulging,
attempting to mimic a mirage,
attempting to mimic,

There is only one disease & we are its catalysts;
we live
our existence only in relation to the ephemeral
objects of our pursuit; we want.

Games, to play.
“Players” – the child & actor & gambler.
And yet humanity takes itself too seriously.
We invented a realism that is vulgar,
we say we didn’t ask for it,
this ideality that is void

take it away.
A creature is nursing its child, arms around the head & neck
there is a harmony of soul and body,
the essence is intrinsically pure,
it is only a symbol – we seek significance

deeper, darker.
Dull lions prone on a watery beach
in the slaughtered wind.
Man is many things, but he is not rational.

The world was meant to be in travail,
we had to take responsibility for it,
connected opposed to alienated
from our environment,
from our land,
our life.

It is our solemn duty to
or attempt to
or begin to
that alive is not dead
& all life is living
as we are living
& we are all alive.


Your percipient roots grew right through
my black tar pavement,
leaving gaping chasms of thought on display.
Listening is key you said.

We slipped inside our untouched wounds, braving
the core. Your branches
unfurled too straight; snapping, we fell.
Are we fractured?

Precariously gripping at the cavernous
walls of your volcanic heart,
don’t let go. My claws have sunk
deep, past dissuading our

caressing carcasses intricately entwined in
a state of rapture.
I was dead. Who knew you would be too
honest, unashamed of incongruities between
your mind and sanity?

Did you think? It may be possible to create an
illusion, a mirror to reflect
my own consciousness. A fill for the teeming
emptiness of the heart.

You’re hollowed out now, so we crawl inside
trying to find a vessel
for our hope. Black skies hide behind red tinged
clouds hovering

above our heads. Is it you or me or the lights
by which we see,
love, that shades them so?
What gave them their omniscient glow?
Masses of eyes stab our sides;
feeding on the possibility

of a smile. Our warmth morphed into sustenance
for their frozen bodies.
Tenuous harmonies we worked for ripped apart
by expedient hands.

Visually pleasing. Each preference as changeable
as the wailing winds in
autumn. So why do you assume? For you is for me;
please, don’t insult our intelligence.

Living vicariously, perched on a window seat. Inked
pages staining already
blue fingers fumbling, pouring life into a leather-bound
book, grown supple to

touch. A cacophony of voices rising to warn of
inherent danger imminently
looming upon our shoulders. Enveloping us in
a veil of deceptive comfort where our minds
align in sweet denial.

First blog post

After five years of calling my bed my writing space I finally bought a desk. I have a desk. A real desk, where I can sit and write and be productive and therefore I have decided to create this blog to post the results of this (anticipated) productivity.