Acedia

The frayed remains of two daydream decades
listlessly slides glass beads across
an abacus
            one
                    by
                        one,

            some
are so delicate that they break
upon contact
& the shards are lost to the permanence of
            forgetting:

the day walks away toward the West as
each sunset colour elides the other,
            leaving behind
a blue creeping twilight
            & shrouded moon

like
        a widower leaves flowers
at the grave of a secret lover.

Ignorant of all but their game,
the frayed remains
see nothing dimly through broken glass,

trapped

in a present moment
       empty of all content:

a skeleton
 
with hollow bones.

6 a.m.


Somehow, at 6 a.m,
or whenever it is
            that the Sun returns again,
the taste & the smell
of the air hiting at the back
of my throat, always
fills me with hope.

Sometimes though

hope hurts.

Doubt


So bored of throwing stones
around the glass house of consciousness;
of exalting or bemoaning
        existence.

Too many words already written &
even more waiting to arrive,
so why continue to
        write?

Is it only to kill the time,
or find some way to bridge
the vast divide
        between us all?

Or maybe a failed attempt to deny
that the Rise is really the Fall;
there will never be a way to
        escape alive.

& the words will continue regardless,
unmoved by constant confusion & doubt.

Questions


Is belief in
the sentiment of love & of
revolution

a contradiction between
singular & universal:

must one sacrifice the other
            or
is the distinction no more than
a mistaken understanding?

To what extent
are the things that we say & do
beyond our control?

Even though
            the choice to say “No”
is always present,
            radical freedom
co-exists with
profound dependency upon others*,

how can biological compulsion
override the tide of cause & effect:

how can the immaterial
change the course of material consequence?

& do these simple questions
really matter,
            because
ultimately

we are forced to exist.





* Simone de Beauvoir – Pyrrhus and Cinéas

Ni patrie, Ni Patron

I am a person
    dislocated
from my creative capacity;

                        alienated

from my species-being;

labouring only to survive
& increase the size of someone else’s
already obscene amount of wealth.

I need to break,
        need to escape
from the endless imposition
of regulation upon my body;

remorselessly repetitive demands
always controlling
        quantifying
        valuing my life
according to the demands
of profit.

Time is alive & so am I,
& we both deserve our freedom.

I don’t want to trade my daylight
just to create surplus value,
I want to waste time on my own terms;

I want to waste my time
        with you…

So when the moment arrives I’ll be there;
        burning cars
        joining riots
& joyfully destroying
what should always have been ours,
before the perversions of power &
history
stole it from us.

Then as the old world dies & the new one is born,

I will scream:

“Ni patrie, Ni Patron!”