What we love most are stories. We love interesting, funny, charming and romantic stories. Yet mostly.. we crave horrific stories. We subconsciously create them all the time, sacrificing our now to materialise a great gruesome memory. We drink ourselves into corners to provoke interaction, fruitful malady, we push the limits, to create interesting anecdotes of how we glimpsed death and of extraordinary behaviours. No one wishes to hear of sitting, of watching TV, not of feeding ducks or of taking tea. We wish for extravagant tales of aberrant slaughter, of how we only just survived. We could choose the peaceful path, the loving path, yet we sacrifice our now, we vote in the monsters, because if we survive, we have incredible stories to tell, the near misses and the lunacy. If we survive, we will fill the books with this idiocy we suffer. But we will not learn from this, we will sacrifice another now, to write for another generation of disbelieving readers.
While out walking through Glastonbury, the towns clock is making faces at me. The fruit trees are reaching to play with the clouds, removing their grey clumpy billowing shrouds. Clouds giggle at attention and sprinkle with glee, they deposit spring rainbow drizzle on me. All who I meet give out copious grins, two feet and growing making their eyes glow and spin. Green lap dogs bark like ten violins, squirrels cycle up trees to collect polished push pins. My legs are noodling, but never in tune, from way up here I can ride the bumps on the moon. I can feel my dizzy heart claw at my ribs, garbled and jittery it’s hitting the skids. It drums and complains, it questions my stature, I should not have come when they empty the dream catchers.
I spilt some water on the floor
the boards began to sprout
vines writhed and burst a pipe
sending gushing water out
the house is growing still
drinking every water drop
each house becomes a tree
it is never going to stop.
To feed the earth again
dilute our poisoned past
a shoot of rapid change
redress the balance fast
abandon concrete floor
climb into the canopy
back to from where we came
to swing on through the trees.
The old fragile of thought
the stiff unmoving evil
Their tantrums at change
their offence at love
their blinkered obscenities
They will kill for hate
they will kill for stagnation
they will kill to keep the different away.
There is now not one grain august
Tinkerbell has had enough
she is shredding throats
she is poisoning eyes
all these monsters here must die
in lupine rage she does let loose
we are splashing around in evil’s juice
Mephistopheles shins are splintered
the devil himself is limping injured
she is tearing through in a raging trance
violent balanced righteous dance.
She wore tassels that shimmered
obsequious to her dance
she took whatever she wished for
propitious in her stance
a deserter to urbanity a demon