On the last day of the World
we discovered,
(of all things)
wine favours the liver
far better than brandy.

Remember when
there were so
many goddam miracles,
we couldn’t seal
the embankment?
Those bricks wept
of hand-blood and
still they poured unstoppable,
those weird
serendipities,
like leadlight
candles,
through stained glass
moulds.

And You?
Well, You grew my feet,
to fit certain sandals.
But hot blotches and spacious
sizes are no substitutes
for freedom.
Objective philanthropic growth?
Oh please, life was never so big.

And Myths?
I declare, what lit
and talking box,
will tell me what to think again?
What sediments of wit and foreplay
slip though these waves of mud?
Show me your chaos and
I will present to you
the gift of perfect order.


And Time?
History built stone sticks,
from earth and wood,
to hold our strange desires.
Sand to glass,
towers with cloud views.
Rivers swerved
and diffused,
and we forgot to ask,
if they could ever disappear.

(Turns out they could.)


And They?
Well They emmitted
a kind of melancholy joy,
on the last day of the World.
Through tender introspection
and newspaper print
that sat slippery
across borders,
wallpapering the children
with prophecies and idyllics,
for all that mattered
in the end.


Thoughts?
Yes we learnt of the dream,
save its origins.
Seems those always are, even when
pulled inside out,
further from the soul
as one could ever be.
Wouldn’t you know it,
turns out we
were all different
in the end.

On the last day of the World,
wine
was judged better
than brandy….

And Me?
Well I remember,
when Love was a good word.