reducetoclear

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Like, the human mind, 

to hover on a pointless line...

Oblivion follows the tide 

in a singular linear idea

Quietly swarming and wild-eyed  

hypnotically driven by time...

Unaware they are utterly lost,

in their widening search for distractions. 

Gigantic oceans packed with their silence, 

prehistoric with the Ancient's of loss...

A movement catches thousands of eyes. 

Frantic sparks into rampage,  

Insanity an intuitive frenzy,

chaos insatiable to devour any new thrill 

like a worthwhile prize... 

Better than the dullness just to survive.

While others fall to the end of their life, 

whatever the cost, 

to whoever could care on how many lives, 

just a million tangents left undone... 

the remarkable invention and discovery 

unknown, and gone... 

just tinder to ignite, to feast on a blood-lust of cries.

As if by command, or by a well-timed strike, 

or another well-placed man-made surprise. 

From stillness they snatch blindly at terrible things, 

that drift uneaten to be lost in their crimes.

Like the leftover dreams of ordinary men... 

one-by-one they slow irritable with contempt, 

and watch from the outside, 

as Oblivion returns in all her dark calmness, 

just to tease them gently for millennia, 

and to eternally follow the tide.   

…and so absorbed into this giant’s lounge

busy with my ghosts through raw mountains stacks 

and greyly scowled, by the unnaturals who roam,

across the moors in supernatural light-deaths  

the monsters of love-lost who haunt me so slow…

the hurricane lamp that swings in silent decay

as if something just left, or decided to stay…

a chance meeting left open, 

the alien wars in a campfire, 

in this place where only the ancient remain

cold and abrupt and simmering

with otherly worlds and their vile gothic stains

the rivers procession of rusty tamborines.

shake free this place of playful things

the brazen bleeding as unholy begins

raised incense of amber atomics, 

fire-smoke and flames like a dragon, 

breath-taking and suddenly caged

staring back, hungry, entranced as if I was prey…

a fusion of lunar crystals in deep, deep black  

injections intense, like peppermint and sage

these Argyll Mountains smothered 

generations of murder and rage

the heritage of men that evolves from your veins

pink colours of sunset leech feeble in rain

or lie slaughtered by vanity 

on such hard, harder slate

an open mind absolved by the rain

moody thoughts that you taught me to save

with this solitude of paradigm blends

again and again crushing time into vents 

an evolution of seasons undoing of life

while I wait so peacefully beside the Styx

waiting for the Ferryman and the open grave

refusing to step forward... 

stare downed by death 

in a most malicious way.

These wise old skies of great cannon fire

And silent wars of prehistoric spire

Away and away they cast their shapes 

of giant ram-heads, as if Tyrants escape 

on their weak castle lakes…

or in effigy of historical dates

Against this place of the killing and drowned

and years of Winter and her chemical flakes

Like a toxic bleach burns brittle and cakes

scorching her cliffs to amplify great

this creation of Springs statement of proud

this forge of seasons magnificent and loud

or ancient walls jammed up by the ground

havoc suspended, they wait for release

to split the Earth and bring to her knees

a symphony of Banshee and ghostly muse

a phosphorous mass as bright as a fuse

The violent disfigured, and buried out-of-sight

The moors of wild squalls 

a no-man’s land, of pain and bear, 

the rulers called Stag that never left there

the silence it seems like a lethal dare

like a man lost, in a thousand yard stare….

And only the night to seal this lair

For the morning that comes

will leave her fear naked 

and so terribly bare…

They stand crowded, 

shoulder to shoulder

packed in heavy and tight

stuck in irritable dancing

lethargic and singing

to the violence and might

shaking free of these wild war ghosts

these seas of unworldly dread

the might of broad swords and blows

as if they fight hostage to fear

or fall savage upon 

such shoulders and backs

unleash your worst and roar on man’s ear

and then leave them embraced

and mad with the queer

as your shaken alive, 

as the insignificant 

wander without wives

…believing in freedom

the greatest adventure of life

From the hawks suncrest

sonic’s faint and crash

off the shores of distant planets

that ricochet with passage

as if the monstrous had passed

a century before…

the storms that squat on pedestals

fat with poor temperament

the bone idol cliffs bland and strangely lethal

the vents carved bald and gargantuan

in Mongolian towers that rule over men…

who cluster like something so fashionable

to wander fells of lawn-bowl perfect,

or lowly and beneath, pitch such fragile tents

engulfed in another worlds weight

the artefacts of the Craftsman lies everywhere…

forging life in a blown nuclear kiln

diluting the magnificent blue shield,

with drifting mists like mindless ideas…

and occasional holes, of dark acid rain…

and old testaments of forests, dusty in legend

and the hope of a pale, palace fleece

littered with graves of ancient war lords

and the sun-drenched romance

of the great Viking queens

the breath as fearsome as a wizard’s haze

Across the roofs, 

mouldy straw and lattice frames

the lessons of loss that lie so badly frayed

yet I so small to stand here

on the edge, within reach of nothing

a speck alone in their midst

the beyond, in light years

and leaps, for all that we hoped would be something…

filled with such monsters of sacrifice

I above all, am allowed to exist.

To stand at the end of the world

As the what-might-have-been runs past

trying to stop the oceans from dying

weak observations

as if from an inflatable raft

which drifts perilously close to the edge

a dream of those beautiful endings…

and define more than myself, 

as I awake from a dream of falling

the energy that saved brings with clarity

of anchors, salvations, barely clutching for rope

as we walk amongst the burnt-out stars

plagued by ghosts and too many false starts

too many man-made ideas…

too many lost in a million

…as if that something could last

Or stolen, and left way out in the past

Alienations, strange creatures from Mars

Implications, a catch-up in parts

Handsome sceptics, Terror genetics

And then we suddenly discover

we were never meant to last

…designed so perfectly 

vessels for life who travelled way too fast

a strange man, at the end

of a grey-fossil pier, a relic of history

where the tide had drained out,

dissolved into swamps and sandbars afar

the night radiant with a new universe

and captured explosions of stars

each a life in one point of light,

in a skyfull of aliens,

moving as one passing time…

implying how good men must pass,

and what’s left, just survives

taken in the end by a lonely, 

and horror-filled last gasp

so much knowledge, I can sigh at last…

where once I was wrapped in another,

at the end, with nothing to hide

He looked sadly at me, these are our times,

an affordable life? the value we are …

theirs is another day yet to be colder,

another day to seize

building our lot,

on incredible dreams

all gone in a blink of an eye,

and all we are left

where once stood great friends,

the world rundowns with another’s debt,

Adventure in life until we are doomed to rest

Hung from each other where desperate is met

and strange men lean over the unnatural edge

And everyone looks blank, to say 

what needs to be said.

I met a strange man at the end of the street

He said let’s take a minute, 

and pointed at factories

And lakes of carparks that stretched 

far into the week

What the hell is this place? 

As he stared at his feet

Maybe someone somewhere called it Creation, 

but where do we sleep?

It’s the human plantation, 

and look, who made me?

Is our genius killing us? 

Are we perfect in sleep?

what must lie buried

beneath these beautiful streets?

These windless sanctions 

and hollow and dull halls

breed the sound of hurried footfalls

removed by distance…

Leading unknown by handsome throats

…gentle with pencil blows

a-cross, to embroider a land in deaths throes

and the stillness claims her Winter’s masts

and gods of imperfections

like the persistence of percussion, 

a timepiece of worlds

wage war on savage fillings

or simply put

a selfish sense-ability

that aches for the midnight

the wild and lonely

the silhouettes on a bare barren wall

companions eroded, into a point of being

the winds that gather in waterfalls

reduced to clear

and far too open

left weeping

in agony

and for everything I cannot say