Archives for posts with tag: poetry

I returned to my hometown convinced
it was all a simulation; all of it
Stumbling onto the word of God like that,
those incontrovertible laws of physics
Well it was clear as day, even to a fledgling programmer like me
Code: code from the top down
and again code beneath it all, lurking
Every invisible pit in the night sky, every degenerative telomere in our baked clay
All of it preordained and pre-set
in the Preserved Tablets above: code is code

Soon after my return I met with a distant relative of mine
who I hadnt seen in years, not since I had left for the city
She was something akin to a cousin
Dearer to me in fact than actual blood
Well she sat across from me a priestess of sorts now, with bleeding pits for eyes
Both of them gouged out by her own hands in sacrifice for true vision
I couldnt conceive of such a senseless belief or conviction

Well she claimed she was a channel to the beyond now and nothing more
That she had gouged out more than just her eyes: that she’d also gouged out her mind
She was my cousin and kin no more
and instead a passing face to be worn by things unknown, and furthermore, unknowable

Who would consent to such a thing?
To be reduced knowingly to an antenna
No; to a glove, moved around and puppeteered at the fancies of the betentacled
Were they terrifying angels or demons that possessed her? Did it matter an iota?

I cannot believe divine providence
would allow my dearest cousin to expunge her soul so wholly, yet what is Written for you will reach you as surely as code is code

I sing a song of history
a song of bloody memory
I sing of ships and spice and gold
that men may venture forth once more
like days of old with a familiar vigour

I sing a song of fable
a song of sword and stone
I sing of weaving myth from tales
that men might hear for truth this day
if nowhere else but in their soul

I sing a song of meaning
a song of dragons slain
I sing a song of prayers and cloth
that men abate their wroth and pain instead
in common ground, in blue and white and red

I sing a song of servitude
a song of civic duty
I sing of knights about a table round
that men may learn of gallant beauty
and their brotherhood be found

I sing a song for tomorrow
a song of hope and harvest
I sing of full bellies, of fertile tum and lands
then men may count within their hands
and know all the ways in which they’re blessed

I sing a song for Albion
and the Lady of the Land
I sing of a people’s dreams
the anthem that its men would chant anew
in sport or hearth, with an ale to hand or brew

I sing a song of a song


The end product will be something to behold. 

No doubt it will be used on me the moment its existence becomes public. I tinker away in secrecy, amused that there’s no real way for me to profit from my invention. But that was never the intention was it? It’s a compulsion after all: We are who we are and cannot help our passions nor what we’re drawn to. I remember making an L out of lego bricks in reception, then being told on and having my makeshift gun confiscated.

I havent given the prototype a distinct name as it rightly deserves, but it’s a gun. Of course it’s a gun. When has anything else ever changed the world?

Though the technology has broader implications, none interest me aside from this singular implementation. The concept is simple and once I finalise it, the ensuing deaths will be elegant.

Picture for a moment the usual trajectory of a bullet fired by a gun. It explodes from the nose, rippling through space and tearing through all materials in its path. The entire time it loses speed, arcing down under the weight of gravity until at last it lodges itself into its final location. Glorious, but inelegant all the same. 

And what of all the collateral damage between the gun and target? What of poor aim? Of distance, rendering targets missed or unreachable?

Now imagine a gun which fired bullets directly to a point in space, instead of tracing an arc through it. The target, and only the target, would be killed by the marksman, irrespective of what lay between them and how far. Beautiful. Simple. Drone strikes and snipers have never looked so unsexy.

My gun consist of two parts: a glove and an augmented visor. A perfect synthesis of action and observation. Of thought and execution. The glove functions as control and trigger; the visor displays coordinates in spacetime. You simply navigate through space-points, directing the bullet to when and where it should lodge. Theoretically you could kill a man on another continent yesterday with none the wiser.

That’s what should be possible. My prototypes have killed men living in the past already, dont get me wrong. But as yet the execution remains messy.

The maps do not thread to the endpoint neatly. The bullets in effect still arc a line, only now through a greater range of space and time. They appear and disappear seemingly at random through existence, until they land when and where they ought to. The target still dies of course, but the problem lies in all the collateral deaths along the way. 

As it stands my gun is as much a machine gun as it is a sniper rifle. Doubly inelegant, no less discriminate than a nail bomb. So I tinker away in secrecy. The greatest evidence of my success and genius will be my dying before it can occur.

An 1887 oil painting of a solar eclipse by Wilhelm Kranz

If I am the sun, then you are surely the moon
my mirror’d mate who occasions upon my domain,
who has her own divine procession and realm
where I cannot follow

Oh that face, that face that I would taste
Is it vanity that I should see my light upon your face?

Visit with me a while once-more
and let others witness from afar our dance, that great pretence they call an eclipse
Oh that illusion of our union
Would that I could touch those hips, 
that I could reach out and touch those eyes and those lips

The painting "Apple Trees in Blossom 1", by Isaac Levitan (1896)

Early summer
where the soil is still soft 
and the grass green
mostly

Bare foot 
under apple tree’s shade
and cloud-gazing through blossom
as ants and spiders tingle over
and under

Pigeons coo and crows caw
finches flit between branches
and higher still the swallows glide

Here blessed winds find me at peace
with my simple domain
free of wants and industry 

I conceive an almighty being 
the grand creator of this simple garden
its source and its origin, perfect 
like it

But here my imagination is exhausted:
I cannot envision a resplendent throne
graceful enough to seat such magnificence

Except that it must be like
sitting under an apple tree’s shade
encircled by singing angels in flight
as the whole of creation tingles
underfoot

The painting "The Wild Hunt of Odin" by Peter Nicolai Arbo (1831-1892)

Is it fair to credit so much of the terrible acts 
of great men to them alone?

Is the man at the fore a wolf so separate from the sheep
when the shared blood of a nation boils together?
Is he not merely the tallest drop in a fervent wave?
A conductor at best, more a lightning rod, 
a mouthpiece possessed by some roused all-father spirit 
that slumbers in the country’s hearts

We deserve the leaders we permit and institute
pretending to sacrifice ourselves at their altar
– purely performative – 
instead sacrificing them like sheep
once we quench our bloodthirsts
(our selves now absolved)

Until that dark spirit fills us again and another is chosen

An old topographical map of the Mexican Central Railway, taken from Wikipedia

Grooves embedded deep upon the contoured land
potent water ways of vital twists and turns
Each near-insignificant in form, evolving
but sprung forth necessary, flowing from function

Old channels run deepest
and though dry now, they bide their time
awaiting frenzied blood to pump, pump
To course, raging back into the zeitgeist

Clang clanging metalworks upon the flat land
straight lengths of steel, angles unnatural
Each piece an exacting cost of toil and ore, connecting by necessity 

Young minds young eyes, reckless ingenuity
bend matter to will as on an anvil
a frenzied thirst for fortune, they drink and drink
On command, the milk courses out from the teat

Soul Walk 02, a painting by Tzi Artistic

The stone, smooth. To look at. To touch. As though washed over by a thousand torrents, which it had been. Polished as though it had passed a thousand sculpting hands. In actuality though just one sculptor had lain hands upon the stone. A pearl, the likes of which had heretofore been rarely seen but oft spoken of. Even now the sculptor toiled away beside it, though the thing was discarded to his mind.

Well. He had been a sculptor once. In a sense he still was but what he shaped in this younger age had changed. As had how he shaped his new object and the tools he employed in its crafting.

He bristled as an accidental glance aside brought the smooth pearl to fresh attention. That response by now as automatic as it was cultivated. The stony pearl, that had been the object of eons of his attention, irritated him now. Once though it had been both his literal soul and the perfected fruits of its labour.

But in the age that followed his heart and mind became clear upon the fact that the shape of his soul was incongruous to the whole. An inert piece perfected far beyond its complementary parts. But there was no fashioning a like heart or mind, for such things were by-products only. No the only hope was to develop them in the process of crafting as he knew.

So he fostered imperfect impulses within himself now, so as to craft a lesser soul-form and in the doing craft a sharper heart and mind of a more approximate measure. And these impulses by design, namely: a reasonable impatience at the glacial ages that his craft took; a resentment and anger at the punitive nature of the way of things to his early attainment of a perfect form; a pre-emptive exiles, self-imposed and borne of feeling deserted by his kind; and an entitlement that such a master sculptor as he should ever be denied any fruits, even those not yet laboured towards.

He looked back now to his new incomplete soul-form: as yet a jagged dull knife, not reflective of the epochs spent upon it. They would not have his soul. Not the old or new. And he would have his bettered heart and mind one way or another.

In the throes of all his nurtured impure impulses, the once-sculptor angrily took into his hand the perfect smooth pearl. And as though it were a whetstone, he sharpened his new soul-form upon the old.

I see as the water ripples collide
the underlying maths

Bouncing off the quay’s edge, folding upon themselves
Reverberating waves, here they negate, there they summate

And this on every plane and axis, to and fro as much as left and right
On cue, perfect patterns form and deform instantly

A couple dip their toes in and this pocket universe takes immediate notice, takes it in and goes on as before

The moon tugs, and the weight of her beckoning is also noted
in that warped surface

I too am drawn in –
which way is up?
which is down?

Sure as my filling lungs, the answer to all great mysteries must lie in water

In another life, in another world
You’re my boy and I’m your girl
But here and now
She’s in my place somehow
And I’m just a ghost

In another life, things didnt end
You’re my boy, she’s still my friend
But here and now
You did what you did somehow
Now she’s just a ghost

In another life, in another world
You’re still my boy, I’m still your girl
But here and now
I buried your memory somehow
And you’re just a ghost

But here and now, in this haunted house
I’m chased by thoughts of you both
And you’ll forever roam these ruins of our home
Knowing what you did wrong, followed by this curse of a song
And none of us move on
And maybe we’re all just ghosts