Sometimes the words only flow in the form of verse. And oftentimes that’s very much appropriate….
All these impulses behind the wheels.
All those ganglia in motion, under instinct;
afloat on chemistry and wetware mechanics:
self-deluded unto autonomy
yet lizardly aware of all substrate -
and so content in retrograded detail.
Just a little more virus in Gaia’s time-sick vein.
Inhale a bit too much of that spark.
Too much of any history poisons you
but a sip sets you soaring.
And the taboo taste of your granddad’s grave dirt
surely tastes a lot like your own. Because…
tall things topple; we’re in an era of overbalancing:
fissures fizz out and transoms go missing.
Artifice appends the advance of geology.
For there’s no choice but to
drift down one muddy stream
or to disdain the breath
while spanning the depths
whilst the sea pulls you home
like your mother.
Every damned fool and poet shouts a warning.
Not a damned one stays til morning.