As precious as that disaster on the motorway

Which let you wait and consider, in passing,

The miracle of: There but for the grace of some

Uncaring God, goes I…


Or the catastrophe of it, the death of our only star,

Bleeding into the sky: a hemorrhage of cloud,

The gauze unable to staunch the sunlight flow

Of hot lifeblood from our sky: saturation.


There are other signs as well, from day to day:

How thieves steal, only enough to live as thieves;

And the lives of the prophets is a history

Of futures denied;


And oils and water are both used in ritual

When they cannot be together, and only share

The common property of solvency.

There are too various tragedies to mention.


And if the motorway cannot direct our paths

Nor the sun, in dying, saturate the sky

And visions, like prophets past, are overlooked

Then solvency must be our consolation.



September’s contribution to the weekly challenge between myself and Blair. To follow his work, check out his website: http://www.glamourgeist.co.uk/

This piece itself is based on a disparate internal monologue, a stream of consciousness which has been structured into stanzas. I sat in the dark (a luxury which Autumn and poverty provide us) and considered what, today, had made me feel a sense of loss. What was it, that made me feel like colours, or physical properties, were leaving me? The answer was human tragedy, on the one hand (the Schadenfreude of a car crash is particularly callous). But also beautiful non-tragedies, such as sunsets, can do it to me. They can also be quite life-affirming, not unlike (I am ashamed to say) surviving a car crash. The juxtaposition is quite unsettling. I think that’s what I wanted to stab at.




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