The Patient and the Subversive

The miraculous rivalry that keeps us in check. Fuels our saviours and brings us to peace with ourselves. To stand against and take back the stolen for others' benefit requires identification with the struggle. Subjectified into revolution, rebellion and the invention of peace. Oh, such a long drawn out process only fit for the patient and the subversive. In the meantime, they teach by example. Fretting the wind to make beautiful noises that reminds of an earth that we knew. There are people who have never seen a tree. In their fatal darkened mistake, those who still know the trees will fair the best as long as there are plants. Sustainability in practice and action and it strengthens our struggle's resources. Hunger is no longer the punishment for poverty. "You don't own the food anymore, we don't need you: go away..." The imaginary lines were still drawn. Divided, conquered, imprisoned and enslaved to an ignoble foe set on hellbent destruction.
The populous trapped in a state of disillusioned fear and apathy that keeps them tied to the grindstone. In a moment or so they will all be weeping for reasons yet to be told. Their blinking eyes shake at the sense of their potential freedom. Wrapped in distance of memory past they wonder if the behemoth will set them free before something else does. Faced with such a grand decision, they will either decide it will, it won't or "fuck the behemoth! We're taking back our freedom!" Now that the clouds are a blacker grey and rain eats our skins, popularity for the latter is growing, rising. People are losing their faith and their minds and this means they need new things to believe in. New things. But the new things are really just recycled old things that we realize as the foe forces us to believe them. The strongest believers are often the new ones, at least at the moment. Flag burners, ya bastas and rioters: just stunts to prove themselves? Backlash, paranoia, bad press and they raise the stakes and surveillance.
Fight of flight used to be the answer. Now the only flight left to use is by plane. So, in this creative rebellion we must not always avoid the use of the master's tools. But the master's tools don't share very well so they punish the use of their tools, although often with more chains.
In chains and cages, however guilded, the instinct is to escape. Confinement by force or finance is not an option that usually warrants survival. Even the fittest get caught but the bars are only as strong as the doubt that you can break them. So curious as to where freedom might lead and the insistent thought that it will be good. Alas, if you break the bars, they will hit you harder, chase you faster and watch you closer. Thus, the struggle remains in the hands of the patient and the subversive. Sneaking up from behind and meticulously dismantling the foe piece by piece.
The raging stench of humanity, vanity, aimless, apathetic eyes. The mystery of knowing: pale winds in an otherwise unforsaken drought of thought and hope. Perils of merciless waste we made to try to save ourselves. We made it and now it is ours, our problem. Through blank dull gazes we justify the situation by saying we had to--lies that will deal the fatal blow and we're gone: dust in the undying shadows of doubt.

Strike The Witless Steam

dripping like waste from the colour spectrum
the eyes you taste and see are false
like plastic blossoms dissolving in the acid rain
hearts afire and the species is left to drown and burn
fearless impertinence strikes the witless steam
and cold hands shutter against blistered winds
the mind grows quiet, listless and unsettled
like the threads of time lost in historic shocks
while wandering scowls abound the flocks alight
dusk sets in and we are blinded by its light
noiseless hours go by and chew at our beings
sands and soils eroded amidst the grey skin
hung in haste from shattered chalky bones
that will smell of life yet once again soon
in the relative passing of aeons and millennia
fields of twisted wires, cables, spines and cords
we knew these answers well at some point
before we guessed what questions we should ask
and left our thoughts impaired by ghostly image
seeking hope amongst the ruin, light amongst the dark
frost between raindrops and the dew of blasphemy
that has yet to be unknown but still forsaken
strangled in the arms of joyous sentience
withering away in the depths of innocence
forgotten it would be if memory could hold
these faceless notions tight and love them still
open into these words a song, a sound, sin waves
numeric dreams with broken codes upon which
we could set the record straight, to play it
listless and absorbed with twinkling smiles
on the lips of young and old, alive and dead
friend and foe, beast and beauty, hill and valley
where we shall soon be set free to roam
while we sleep the rest are journeying further
into the intrepid, unwanted and undiscovered.

The Landstonian Method of Methane-based Atmosphere Creation

Dinosaurs are smarter than you think. But, then again: what does science know? Numbers add up to nothing. Many people today think of humanity as some sort of logical conclusion to evolution. If dinosaurs weren't a logical conclusion to evolution, then I don't know what will be. Neither does anyone. Human perception of time doesn't even come close. The planet is still evolving. Other planets, galaxies and universes are evolving too. Mars is currently developing an atmosphere using a methane based technique devised by Brimmy Landstone.
Brimmy came from a small island in the middle of an ocean on Earth. When Brimmy was a child, a spaceship came falling out of the sky and landed in the water. They had come to the island and as one of the only people living on the island, Brimmy got to meet the astronauts. Brimmy was fascinated. She decided that she wanted to be an astronaut. So she asked them to take her for a ride in their flying boat. They didn't understand. Brimmy decided to just go to the flying boat. Maybe they would understand. When she got to the flying boat, the door was open so she went in. There were all sorts of knobs and gauges and things she'd never seen before. Brimmy thought for a second that the astronauts must be aliens. But then she figured that the rock covered in water must have more islands with more people and perhaps it was commonplace for flying boats full of people to fall out of the sky.
Brimmy still wanted to try the flying boat so she started pushing buttons. Suddenly, the door slammed and the boat began to whir. The ground began to shake so hard that the flying boat bounced into the air. Suddenly, an enormous volcano erupted straight out of the water and blew the flying boat into the air. The flying boat was going through the clouds, faster than it had ever gone before. Brimmy was rather uncomfortable with gravity flattening her against the rear wall of the vehicle.
Suddenly, Brimmy was floating around lighter than air. Brimmy was not previously aware of the existence of space. She figured that it was probably different beyond the clouds but eventually figured out that she couldn't jump that high. She certainly had no idea that things floated in space. Now she floated around inside what was a lot like a flying house. This was a puzzling situation to be in.
Suddenly, a box inside the front of the boat started speaking. Brimmy went to the front of the boat to look for the person who was speaking. "One of the astronauts is in there," she thought. "Speaking that astronaut language." Brimmy answered back in her own language. More astronaut language and no astronaut.
She finally decided that there was no one there and that this was an extraordinary talking box. It kept talking and she kept listening. Eventually, Brimmy started to pick up the language. She already had figured out that "astronaut" was the word for the people who had come to the island. Brimmy heard the phrase "Are you an astronaut?"
"No, I'm an astrologer." Brimmy thought it was funny. Astrologer means astronaut in her language.

But she was hungry. There was no food in the flying boat.

However, the flying boat was going faster than anyone knew, faster than anyone had gone before. The time-space continuum was wobbling and Brimmy started hallucinating. Suddenly, the flying boat smashed into a solid red surface. Brimmy was the first person to go to Mars but she didn't know it was Mars.
The flying boat was going so fast that it put a large hole in Mars. When the boat stopped moving it was well underground. The boat had cracked in half. There was an underground cave of sorts surrounding where the boat had stopped. Brimmy climbed out and relaized that she could see because the walls glowed with beautiful multicoloured mushrooms. There was a small stream running through the long narrow cave. She wasn't surprised to find an underground stream on Mars. She figured that Mars had water just like Earth.
Brimmy looked back at the ship to see that several cows were coming out of the large crack. the flight before her's had been doing research on cows in space. They began to graze on the mushrooms. Brimmy smiled and drank some water from the stream.
Many years passed as Brimmy and the cows explored the tunnels, grazing on mushrooms and drinking from the stream. the herd of cows grew . Thus, there was always methane in the air. Brimmy didn't know that methane was a greenhouse gas. she didn't even know that methane existed. Thus, Brimmy didn't realize that as they kept getting closer to the surface, the methane released by the cows had been causing an atmosphere to develop. In fact, when Brimmy first stepped out onto the surface of Mars, it was raining.
But, alas, this is the impossible story, the story science can't tell you. No one ever really knew taht Brimmy went to Mars. The Landstonian Method of Methane-based Atmosphere Development is virtually unknown.
When humans did arrive on Mars, many, many years later, they were surprised to find a fully functioning ecosystem dominated by talking cows. Cows don't usually speak because they don't have anything to say. These cows spoke to tell their story. Sadly, depsite the abundance of cows on Earth, humans don't speak cow. Thus, they didn't understand and are hunting down cows as alien invaders to this day

Poesis Sans Nom

Beaucoup des personnes ne mangent pas
Les bastilles riche est le fin du monde
Par chose et par chance
Ton province ou ton distance
Fait plus travaille pour l'argent de rois
Si vous morte, je suis innocente
Vois pas, ecoute et menage
Les images est soulement papier
Et mon visage est soulement corps
Dans la ville, ne dormier pas
Buvez, fumez, sensitive
Si vous tombez, je suis dormis

Hands Across The Sky

linked hands across the sky
reflected in shades of black and blue
amongst the pale grey moonlight
the voices stutter realms of hope
to the tired hands waving from the sea
clutching at the curtain of dawn
distant bells shake the air
and feed the chirping ears
contained within these empty hands
eyes averted, faces drawn thinner
then smudged like ashes in the wind
somewhere a child is singing without a sound
time breaks and all matter of opinions meet
we are dreams, lies, hands across the sky
clenched into fists, clutching, caressing
feeding the hungry mouths of the myriads
fragments in a blink of dust
burning out the excess, left for dead
the frail hum of this slow pulse
a drum that beats life, breath, blood
wrapped in tongues, tomes and tyrrany
breaths of fire rest amongst the flame
places, the hearts we've warmed and broken
carved our names into the ancient stone walls
and climbed back up to this vantage point
beneath the words the stars fall silent
sand and snow both drift in search of a home
then reverberate in these long dark hallways
left here as a reminder of progress
a process of decay, deterioration, loss
as the sea washes away these marks:
our footprints across the sky.

Of Temper and Reign

clouds weep grace, impress a stain upon this dream
nightmares of indecision hope and sacrifice
meaningless is meaning, less than we know
but the eyes of dawn blink and shutter as
memory waves and makes ghost faces at the
naked unborn children choking on their wombs
unfettered by the im-perilous scope of this
impatience magnitude drowned in the hands
of the raped and the damned and the crusted
with star-crossed voyages to immediacy
of temper and reign while blinking
faking the impossible and making it look real

In Microcosm's Hope

amalgamating faces dripping eyes into your mind
the sighs of dead whistles and lost paradigms
inside all of these wonders are dreams that we fed
to outsider imagery amongst smokey grey bricks
when summertime comes we'll take off our coats
drag out our feces and fertilize with it and grow
into the dark canyons and things we must be
paralyzed demons in syncopated luminosity
hope is a void and we must fill it with the joy
of the choices we made, the words that we say
in microcosms' hope, loss and unwanted desire
missing the point clarified in broken tongue
opposable thumbs that work for and against
the stakes have been driven, the claims that we've staked
i am the particle, the participle and the clause
actively passive within painted white walls
noises make it sound like it was never here
reaching hands grab it and then disappear
posturing poets with nothing to say
they make funny faces and run away