Bring the Future

  

Bring a hundred thousand people
bring a hundred thousand more
bring the armies of the faithful
bring the legions of the poor
bring all of those belonging
and the ones who are left out

Bring the children of tomorrow
and those aged with crushing doubt
bring all of the resistance
to the cruelty of the few
but start with that one humble voice
the one that comes from you

Featured image by Guilherme Kramer.

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Rat Run

  

What do you call this future? The one at the end of the rat run you’ve built out of today and into tomorrow? The one we can see as a pin-prick at the end of the tunnel, a pin-prick of grey light and confinement. Why do you want us to go there? Really, why? What motivates you to shepherd us with threats, prods and promises of milk and honey which sound bitter even as you speak them? We’re still playing in yesterday’s rubbish after all. Our attentions are all hooked on sun faded Tango cans and empty crisp wrappers we left as a legacy from our childhood to remind us of the way home. Maps formed of artifacts from our own antiquity which we’re more than happy to struggle to decipher because at least we know the juvenile cartographers drew those lines without guile or malice.

Why should we, why would we dash into a clean and compressed passage which leads to nothing more than sterile light and a dream you can’t explain? A dream where all the rest has been swept away?

How are you going to make us?

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My Trip to the Country

  

It’s odd to be a Londoner abroad. Or any city-dweller for that matter. Looking at local life beyond your metropolis and knowing how small and meagre a re-imagining it is compared to the crazed and fiery life of millions of people clinging to one united concrete haven. Aware on top of that that the natives call this parochial stasis civilization. All the life they know is herded into strangling borders, nailing them into place and into self. Butterflies, or wasps, pinned under dusty glass on view to the panopticon of similar cases that house the rest of the hive.

But who are we? Not some alien breed. Not some segregated other drawn from urban blocks to gaze at specimens. Nothing so grand.  We’re insects ourselves – our hive bigger, more chaotic – in our imagination perhaps even freer. If we look at their narrow homes with pity though how do they look at ours? Our confines where we are unknown and unseen, our cases buffed to a dull sheen but finished with frosted glass to keep hidden forever ourselves and our own. Busy in solitude even if we warm ourselves on a million vibrating heart beats around us.

That’s the thought that halts our travels and silences our judgement. The though that cuts us adrift from our wryly knowing observation and anchors the urbane to the isolated. Obscuring the differences and leaving us to wonder whose way is sunk most by its’ frailties and when, if ever, we should start running from both.

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No Devil to Fear

  

It’s not the Devil you need to fear
Not the shudder of feeling which drags you underground,
into granite cells scored with solitude

Not the sigh of loss which brushes raw memories
or the clear space left to gulf what remains

It’s the indifference of silence
The echoing stillness of words unspoken
hanging unliving
in suddenly stifling air
A cast impossible to break once set
and impossible to stop hands from forming

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When You’re Done

  

When you find yourself buying the dreams you used to make
with immature passion
as an ignorant expansion
of those feelings with no name

When the naked truth has found an outfit
selected from the screen
where nothing is left laid bare
but a desperate need to be seen

When what you see isn’t your hallucination
but a dopamine released purchase
from a shiny suit
or dead end alley

When you’re done,
it’s a long way back to the beginning

Featured image by Keff

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