titanic lethargy

it means that the howling is unending
the plaintive rush of icy air
a flow of tentative fingers filling our pockets
wrapping tendrils of muted light over pursed lips.
Now it bulges, grows completely filling every space
even the obscure creases where we hid secrets,
but they're safe,
blemished, warped with age and depraved silence.
Chromium steel, tinged with radiant orange
builds from pitted woes, awed by a new sun.
The old lies rust in effigy while ancient laws reborn
defy gravity
hurl concentrically amid wagon wheel spokes
and burrow into the fruited lives of our elders.
Bestill, only the dust lives forever
even it swirls on an axis
of an others design.

Somewhere, sometime?, in the past few days I found myself maudlin up to the point of an irreversible trend toward the point of no return. Indeed, at one juncture I did find myself turned aside momentarily, askew to the perpendicular, but my wit took me into its corner and whispered these things in a thick vapor of salt upon my reluctant senses: don't neglect your present course, you must ride it to the end without reservation. Do not be swayed by the sights and sounds to your left, or tastes and textures to your right. A soft belly cannot reason, a feckless mind will not rebel. Grab hold of this flaming torrent and paddle through to the climax, where all will be gained. There is a calm to be met in the flux of an inherent universe, a place one can delve into benign avenues and be seen as all-everything but above it all, a space so low that looking up is akin to flowing into and around, or so high that seeing is an exercise of diffuse light. Interpretation is the key, and spinning gains disciples of truths and the lies they'll swear allegiance on. The turn of a poetic phrase strikes a fetid pose, wherein dark and light mix in a slurry of pent up aggression, spilling out in a gaping froth of cacophonous ire to flood and overwhelm your contrived masses until they succumb to the unholy tide and swirl in the ceaseless eddies of a contorted soul.

shifting universi

bon mot: such is life.

My friend Riley had on one occasion launched for me my own alternate universe, my only stipulation being Clarke's most tenebrous vision of the future, Childhood's End, was neither written or supposed.
Stepping through I became impelled to have coffee with a woman in heels carrying cream to her Lexus;
she paid obviously foregoing a meeting, but never forgot the minutes frivolously spent with a stranger who wanted nothing and had nothing to give. The moment was enough to chink the equation, turning one world into a purposeless cog in the universal machination. Elsewhere a black hole spat festoonery from its arse end and a further spark of imagery coalesced, one where Clarke must doom the suspect civilization. Do not ponder the whys or fret whatifs—all earthly decisions are programmed in the heat of an empirical singularity light years beyond our control. My return to Clarke's universe was to gather intangibles and to leave a rose the variety of which was never meant to be adored and on its petals bloomed a tenet of humility: that humanity is doomed be certain; the door to there is shut and the reality is that here we are living an honestly ongoing futile existence of neither here nor there.