The Homogenized Noise

Of Public Place—

Amplifies Silence

Of Private Space—

Promoting Extraction

Of Cosmic Musing—

And Distillation

Into Poetry—

Cosmic Dancer

On Her Toes—

But is the World Ready

For the Moves

She's about to Make?—

The Jagged Lines

Of this Reality

Stand no Chance

Against Fluidity—

Confront

As Above, not always—

  So Below—

To the Light, not always

  The Way to Go—

And in the Depths

  Are Great Unknowns—

And the Wind

  Will Tear your Sails—

The Sun itself

  Will Burn your Skin—

The Map's been Lost,

  So Let's Begin—

Build the Vessel

  Light and Strong—

And Ride each Wave,

  To its Nether End—

Flow

A House is Built

A Life is Born

A Wage is Earned

A Will Prescribed—

When the Ambulance Arrives

It's no Surprise—

The House is Sold

A Stone is Carved

A Box is Dropped—

Tears,

Indifferent to Rain—

All Through The Night

  The Words are Dancing

Along to a Melody

  Nobody can Hear—

And when Finally The Pen

  Is Driven to Write—

The Explosion is Poetry—

  To Anyone's Ear—

On A Cloud Of Found Souls

On a Cumulus Cloud of Timeless Drift—

  Up where the Albatross Soars in Glory—

Up where the Atmosphere's Clean & Crisp,

  Begins a most Fantastical Story:

Of Beings not Made for Earthly Ground—

  Once Lost and Wandering,—Incomplete—

But Drawn to a Distant, Skyward Sound,

  With Dreams of Wings, instead of Feet.

The Limited Dimensions of Human Existence

  Weighed on their Bodies & Slowed them down

As they Wandered from Place, to find their Presence

  And a Cure for the Common, Human Frown.

Robbed of the Currencies of Fear & Desire—

  Homeless Among the Deserted Weeds—

Looking to the Sky for Signs of Fire—

  Hoping the Stars could Feel their Needs.

And at their Lowest, the Notes took Hold,

  And Lifted them up off the Filthy Ground—

The Sound was New, and had never been Sold—

  Sung by their Muses that were Finally Found.

With the Help of the Angels the Souls were Lifted

  Along with their Muses, now Finally Free

From Stagnant Darkness—Now so Distant—

  To The Cloud so Present, to Eternally Be.

Dystopian Pandemonium (2024)

                        I.

The Parade of Bombs Marches On—

  The Mob of Flags Wags its Tail—

The Screen Reveals the Noise to All,

  And All, Keep to Themselves—

They've Learned to Deal with Massive Things

  By Placing Themselves Before the Drop—

A Fantasy, they'd Die to Keep—

  And by their Beds, to Help It Stop...

                        II.

For Chaos is the World We Know—

  Mayhem is all we're Here to Make—

Our Fears—Falling from the Sky like Snow—

  Killing—and Freezing the Crystal Lake—

Nefarious Intent is what we Spread—

  Fuel to the Flame we Abundantly Add!—

As Prisons Release the Air-born Illness,

  While Guards stand Watch as it All goes Mad...

                        III.

Our Factories Invested so Heavily in Chaos—

  Manufactured Daily by the Metric Ton—

The Hammers stay Busy Forging New Faces

  To the Origin, as it comes Undone...

                        IV.

The Machines are More, than Anyone Now—

  Public Opinion Recorded and Saved—

Facts Attack like red-hot Arrows—

  To Justify your Next-Door Neighbour's Grave—

The Houses Arranged in Mathematical Rows—

  And Painted the Same Precise Middle Grey—

All Movement is Tracked, all Thought Repressed—

  Feelings are Pills with Nothing to Say—

Escape Erased from the Current Vocabulary—

  The Rivers all Dyed a Natural Blue—

The Sky's been Deleted and in its Place

  Is the Nothing of Everyone & Dreams of Youth...

                        V.

They Whisper Resurgence—from Deep Below—

  Some Madness to Shift this Dying Paradigm—

Life Against Death—& Death is Life—

  The Activist's Grip on their Revolt is a Sign,

That Nothing is Ready, quite yet, this Time...

                        VI.

             Deus Ex Machina:

The Machinery of War—Seized in the Sand—

  The Bodies left over, all Withered and Frail—

No Strength or Materials to Refurbish the Land—

  All Eyes on Each Other, knowing it's Failed—

Through Fields made of Concrete—too Hot for the Feet

  Run Rivers of Acid!—To Oceans of Fire!—

Armageddon at last?—but where are the Meek?—

  Are the Skies too Thick for the Flight of our Saviour?

The Curtains are Closing, but Earth is not Done—

  It shakes off what's left!—Insignificant Fleas!—

With a Shift of the Poles, the Ground Opens up—

  And Hell Finally Swallows, what's Left to Believe.

                                   —in remembrance of 1984 

                                                 by George Orwell