Thursday, 7 January 2010


Loopholes were all that were clearly left
In the wake of our meeting with the vagaries of chance.
Supine and warmed from the heat of the west,
And the approach of old things in the distance.
Nothing remunerative, and knowing it well
On the great winding road near the intersection.
Quietly inventive but with nothing to sell,
Except the contingents’ direction.

Forming a narrative of where we were going,
In the mean time between our here and its there.
For my thinning carriage and tarmac’s renewing,
And fields of sheep bleating somewhere.
Passing a low slung idea of prevention,
And breaking the laws of its unnatural preserve;
Over the highway through wrought iron tension,
And the sight of rape seed on the curve.

Stopping and holding a glass for our parlance
By the side of a flock of resigned old requesters;
Stoop to the building with no backward glance,
And be honest about the protesters.
Get back outside and return to the journey,
And eventually everything settles.
Collect a few items and fill up the gurney,
And burn labour and fuel and metals.

Pour coal on the fire, and roast everything brought,
Until nothing is left but the paste in the bones.
Poor things acquired without any thought
Consumed readily outside the home.
Strange shapes appear to evolve from the circle
Whose structure brings people around;
Facing the facts that repeat with the cycle,
Uneven, but overly bound.

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