Distortion arranged in chaos, loud, undending, enfolding,
Balances Out,
Centred on an emptiness
Dances always with order to wash it away.
And sometimes, often, more often, eventually, always,
They annihilate-
But the hope of those small moments rests on being helped back up, or talked back down.
What you have to reach out and catch between time is the emptiness.
Needing Love, Giving Love.
Growing Love.
When you are superimposed, you are in between two slices of time.
So, what slices of time are eternal,
Pulled forward by the spinning of the earth?
The cycle of the simulated universe
Is the cycle of the seasons.
It goes like this:
I heard a small bird once, after a violent and black storm
It pierced a silence so loud.
A little gold glimmer.
It feels like spring.
Then I woke up on a morning with dew resting,
A sharp tang of countryside bonfire,
lit by the love of some eternal groundsman (who more often than not is just passing by)
fields blossoming deep blue and green,
a cold nose, a blunt stone pavement to stand on,
and to walk on back to the city.
And in that walk back,
A road lined with hushed trees
Every step summoned summer closer,
Nature bloomed full and luscious,
ruby red apples hang like jewels and shine,
and inaction leaves them there- but the air is warm,
little stones get thrown into ponds
the fire burns,
we sit around it
devour the smoke
and drink to quench the sun
such is the season of abundance.
The apples are rotting! Cries the badger.
Fuck, Wait, What?
LISTEN TO ME. I SAID THE APPLES ARE ROTTING. PICK THE FUCKING APPLES YOU LAZY CUNT.
The Badger hisses, upset, as it shuffles, or waddles, back into its den, or hole or whatever, the bastard. A fox ushers the badger into the depths and flicks a contemptuous look back at me over its shoulder. A barn owl is peering out from the branches of one of the trees. "...WHAT?!" I yell at it, palms out, shocked and indignant. It raises a tufted eyebrow and flaps away. "What did I do?" I say quietly to the wind
The wind just shrugs past me, she caresses my cheek with icy indifference as she leaves me listless.
I dont know how to pick the apples
All through Summer into Autumn I heard myself say this.
I watched murmurations of birds dancing in formation against the backdrop of a summer thunderstorm.
Yet there was one bird lagging behind them all,
This one bird, a shepherd, risking distance, unable to catch up
This bird with long gaps between graceful flaps
broke off, on its own path, flying south,
Over the trees, the city,
and me standing there in the evening humid air,
I heard myself say this:
Take no harvest now
Before this season's end.
Slick in shades of umber and crimson,
The fog lies low and cold over hunchbacked hills,
Woodsmoke smell will hunker indoors
Along with you and the mold
The harvest, the rejoicing,
You have been at play too long,
You are being willfully blind
The fields that I see
Are barren and stripped
Hollow reeds rise from churned earth,
And snout and teeth and bristle will rifle
Through dead wet pages of leaves.
Then the trees are to become skeletal.
Some will wither and die and give themselves to fungus.
Nothing is wasted,
Those apples on the floor are better suited
To being in love with the worms and the rot,
Than being given to others in a summer feast.
The trees’ branches will be like grasping fingers
Holding themselves, harnessed, like orants to the bone white moon!
My eyes redshot now with power and hope I go on:
It is the Turning Time!
Let it Burn!
Let your fields burn in a raging, razing fire!
Run to the Sea!
Embrace the water,
Immerse yourself in chaos!
All this will give haste to the march of Winter, the silent kingdom!
When, in that scarcity of love and abundance,
the fearsome cold will harden it all,
and leave gold in those cracks, so furrowed by plough and root.
The radiance of the flames will have left such a vastness of scorched earth,
That standing on it there can be nothing but a lightness of being,
In reverence to the newfound empty land you stand on.
And when you are ready, after all this,
You will see soaring overhead a phoenix,
Death into Life,
As Spring into Summer.
As Autumn into Winter.
As Spring into Summer.
Balances Out,
Centred on an emptiness
Dances always with order to wash it away.
And sometimes, often, more often, eventually, always,
They annihilate-
But the hope of those small moments rests on being helped back up, or talked back down.
What you have to reach out and catch between time is the emptiness.
Needing Love, Giving Love.
Growing Love.
When you are superimposed, you are in between two slices of time.
So, what slices of time are eternal,
Pulled forward by the spinning of the earth?
The cycle of the simulated universe
Is the cycle of the seasons.
It goes like this:
I heard a small bird once, after a violent and black storm
It pierced a silence so loud.
A little gold glimmer.
It feels like spring.
Then I woke up on a morning with dew resting,
A sharp tang of countryside bonfire,
lit by the love of some eternal groundsman (who more often than not is just passing by)
fields blossoming deep blue and green,
a cold nose, a blunt stone pavement to stand on,
and to walk on back to the city.
And in that walk back,
A road lined with hushed trees
Every step summoned summer closer,
Nature bloomed full and luscious,
ruby red apples hang like jewels and shine,
and inaction leaves them there- but the air is warm,
little stones get thrown into ponds
the fire burns,
we sit around it
devour the smoke
and drink to quench the sun
such is the season of abundance.
The apples are rotting! Cries the badger.
Fuck, Wait, What?
LISTEN TO ME. I SAID THE APPLES ARE ROTTING. PICK THE FUCKING APPLES YOU LAZY CUNT.
The Badger hisses, upset, as it shuffles, or waddles, back into its den, or hole or whatever, the bastard. A fox ushers the badger into the depths and flicks a contemptuous look back at me over its shoulder. A barn owl is peering out from the branches of one of the trees. "...WHAT?!" I yell at it, palms out, shocked and indignant. It raises a tufted eyebrow and flaps away. "What did I do?" I say quietly to the wind
The wind just shrugs past me, she caresses my cheek with icy indifference as she leaves me listless.
I dont know how to pick the apples
All through Summer into Autumn I heard myself say this.
I watched murmurations of birds dancing in formation against the backdrop of a summer thunderstorm.
Yet there was one bird lagging behind them all,
This one bird, a shepherd, risking distance, unable to catch up
This bird with long gaps between graceful flaps
broke off, on its own path, flying south,
Over the trees, the city,
and me standing there in the evening humid air,
I heard myself say this:
Take no harvest now
Before this season's end.
Slick in shades of umber and crimson,
The fog lies low and cold over hunchbacked hills,
Woodsmoke smell will hunker indoors
Along with you and the mold
The harvest, the rejoicing,
You have been at play too long,
You are being willfully blind
The fields that I see
Are barren and stripped
Hollow reeds rise from churned earth,
And snout and teeth and bristle will rifle
Through dead wet pages of leaves.
Then the trees are to become skeletal.
Some will wither and die and give themselves to fungus.
Nothing is wasted,
Those apples on the floor are better suited
To being in love with the worms and the rot,
Than being given to others in a summer feast.
The trees’ branches will be like grasping fingers
Holding themselves, harnessed, like orants to the bone white moon!
My eyes redshot now with power and hope I go on:
It is the Turning Time!
Let it Burn!
Let your fields burn in a raging, razing fire!
Run to the Sea!
Embrace the water,
Immerse yourself in chaos!
All this will give haste to the march of Winter, the silent kingdom!
When, in that scarcity of love and abundance,
the fearsome cold will harden it all,
and leave gold in those cracks, so furrowed by plough and root.
The radiance of the flames will have left such a vastness of scorched earth,
That standing on it there can be nothing but a lightness of being,
In reverence to the newfound empty land you stand on.
And when you are ready, after all this,
You will see soaring overhead a phoenix,
Death into Life,
As Spring into Summer.
As Autumn into Winter.
As Spring into Summer.
