Stabs at Hope

everyone got a print out with
dates, under achievements dressed up
as, chance would be a fine thing
a business card to stack in a drawer
a name, a number, the tiny shot
to knock at the front door
our little stabs at hope
when the river runs black
a tumultuous refrain
that jiggles every wave of your being
in discourse with discord
we are hunks of meat, set on rails
paddling toward the mincer
kidding ourselves on with books of god
when every gluon
every electron, klaxon
wave or point
shivers with indifference
lost in the movement of another score
way beyond
I say this in light parting
As we glance shoulders
After you kicked my feet from under me
I say this in joy
I laugh
All the way down

it advances in fits, not some slow, prolonged process, not the complete serenity or
calmness, it comes in the immediate, instantaneous turmoil propagated by extremes.
One cannot exist without the other, chaos or order, these fixed polarities, stream
throug h our daily lives like radio waves. Evolution takes the form of mutation, neurosis,
events transpire to push an organism to its limits and something vital is altered.. this
construct occurs at the macro level, to the micro, through and through, the dilemma s of
cells, the trials of ants, the universe itself. The periods of calm should be seen as
recovery time, takes a while to get over the trauma of genetic evolution and even at a
psychological level (collective or otherwise) knowledge and insight is often earned
through enduring climatic events. The death in a family, to the psyche of various
peoples post WWII.
It’s better to realise this, to arm yourself with such knowledge, the universe is not rosy,
not all positive, not loving or caring. It is arbitrary, it does not care because such
concepts are banal to a whirlwind of energy, waves or whatever. The Higg’s boson
does not care for universe full of love. (Ah, but you are getting pissed at me – but this is
because you are getting hung up on banal concepts such as love – and perhaps too
much love in the multiverse would be a Bad thing, maybe it would have an inverse
effect – perhaps a placid happy universe would be a regressive place inhabited by Lego
people with the same fixed smile! Perhaps in such a universe the meaning of love itself
would loose all power, perhaps in that type love would become a bad thing, in essence
just a word to which you blink and nod your little yellow head – there again I am
unfairly picking on the abstract of LOVE – to which you cling).

ah, you little star
the universe pivots
about your centre
you demand their eyes
their hearts
their candour (?)
little star
limitless on nice
until you go under
the veneer of your solder
little star, your order
the dictates you serve over
threat or judgment
from your cell of hives
the itch you cannot surrender.
you collate the fiction of your
history
it congeals in jellied clots about your
tongue
and in conjunction with the council of
the planets
your picture is complete
and
ricocheted off every stranger
anecdotal sound bites like trails of
sweeties
left to snare children
to your gummy heart
Of over wrought niceties
-all the stage
is yours

they say that history is loaded
the gentlemen were loaded
the lords and ladies lorded
peasant skulls filled their larders
salted wounds bound their laughter
the victor’s history proved their lacquer
a lackadaisical lactation
for history’s fucked mead
empirical evidence in
mountains of bones
and ruins and tombs
the songs of the damned
scratched into glass
unearth the real
luminary construct