Thoughts on a watery autumn evening,
This particular poet's dreaming,
A romance of the senses breathing a heaving
Denouncement of the collective keening
'To keep the moment beating!
To believe the movement teeming!'
To descry the knowledge of all we wanted
And laugh for the love of being.
This earth is a play ground,
I am awake within it.
I keep my back upon the rock and stare up;
My eyes the framework for some fantastic cinema of the senses:
The clouds are white and skittish,
A frozen ripple of droplets floating in space,
The tree branches out,
A foreground focus,
A beautiful composition.
I send text messages, smoke cigarettes,
Enjoy myself;
Grow heavy with the caffeeine stimulus,
And let light love me to the point of exaggerated movements;
Neurotic stutterings -
Entertainment for the masses.
What better way to spend a day
Than as yourself?
They say that the universe began with a great big bang,
And that all the particles which make us up,
Went hurtling into space.
Which became planets
And suns
And moons and ice and oxygen
And molten lava
And toast and bananas and grass
And toe nails
And reptilian creatures which stomped and roared
And meteors and chemicals and dreams.
They say that eventually,
This vast experience which began so furiously
Will lose steam in its argument for territory
And become introspective,
Slowly withdraw from the fight
And suck itself inwards to that point of light
That place where we all began,
To muse upon its journey.
So when all the universe does come crashing back into place,
I take solace in the fact
That though we may be apart now,
There, at least,
We will be whole again.