today the animals have a sickness of
as they peer their small faces
through fence gaps
bead of ink in clear water bucket
recollections of sick dog’s nightmare
all brings a day which hangs heavy pale
yellowing overcast shimmers hazy surrealism
and softens the edges of seventies architecture
and someone in a sidestreet shouts for help
rippling glass lakes skipping dusty records
and one day the
won’t do quite what you want them to
you know they are deaf to the interplanetary violins,
and cymbals, crashing, and you know that
alien cultures have classical instruments
exactly like ours.
today there’s an unpicked stitch in reality’s tapestry and that one man across the street in
the cafe doesn’t quite sit right with your expectations.
if that sheet of ragged plastic over scaffolding could talk it would tell you it has the ﬂat effect —or it would try to tell you but be masked by an argument so seemingly inane that it’s nature is pivotal, and changes the
direction of the human condition.
“you’ve not bought enough oranges again. you know i like peeling them more than i like
a woman growls at her own reﬂection in a corner-shop window and somewhere there is a
world listening to her through wide-cast transmission signals.
a whole race obsessed with
logic making notes methodically.
and The Man underground overseeing the whole
operation gives the order to ﬁle the notepaper stacks in a concrete structure built on a
secluded hillside in the highlands, and years in the future when all is forgotten, this
madwoman reaches a godlike status, revered ﬁgurehead of culture and religion.
her words will ring true and prophetic like shining new golden church bells over the ridges
and crags in the mountains, so all men will hear it and squint in the half-light, take out a
new stack of notepaper and label it ‘year one’.
Profile: Moon Tzu