The Force of Coriolis Be With You


We only arrive for an existence at the end,

At the end which is not death
But is the eye of a maelstrom and the beginning
Which shuffles about in slippers of birdsong
Or wraps about us in old-dog duvets
Enfolding in it’s plenitude of nothingness
Still pregnant with the bated breaths
Of Mahler’s Second coming.

At this beginning
Blades of grass cut the limits of time
Into chemistries of cosmic clay
As earth oozes its intoxicating liquor
From the forest of revelation and decay
And a miniscule now is finally conceived
Out of antiseptic cultures
From an infinite but deconstructed past.

So in spite of all we loaf and we observe
As the vehicles and apparatus of transposition
Rush on and on by the pavements grey
And the raging world turns
It’s rondure of white noise
Spiralling into a quiet and an unseen calm
Hidden for want of our searching there
In the deep hearts core of our entanglement
Here in England now
At the timeless intersection of this becoming.

Our senses insinuate in vortextual fragments
Blown like straws in hurricanes
Racing pulverised into jagged shards
So that even those cruel words
Left tattooed on every atom of our being
Lapse into the fractured archaeology of life
Faded, stretched, no longer legible
On their journey round the storm
Towards serene quiescence
In those empty vital silences saying not yet
Not quite
Not remembered
Not happening
And the ticking stops.

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