Shining threads

Shining threads

Saturday, 20 July 2013

Don't bite the dust

Don't bite the dust.

Even when the wind whips up a storm in the dust-bowl
and particles threaten to assail your being,
blind to all but loose grey matter,
keep your sights on the rainbow fruits,
the green-grass fields,
the lemon-shine sun
and the blue-shone sky.

Don't bite the dust
in a legal ceremony
or a lowered coffin
but turn around to other pathways
and let your feet rule the dirt,
making sometime prints and patterns
before you glimpse the dust annul your treads
in the rear-view mirror.

Others around you may succumb to a limited vision
which ends in dust,
believing in a wind-down universe
but move your spirit which wants to move
and keep the cells dancing
whichever way they like to go.

Don't bite the dust.
Keep walking.
Eat tasty things.
Brush off dead-skin, stray hairs and dandruff
onto the floor of existence
and keep walking,
resisting the lure of dusty dissolution.

She bites

She bites,
tight-clenched hand on neck,
a bloodless vampire.

Sometimes pain lightens the load,
so relaxation and enjoyment
are augmented by an awareness of possible danger,
probable games but you never know.

She bites,
life keeping us on our toes.

Eagle sweeps through the sky,
some birds seem nice
and some are only following their nature.

Cities keep us closed in,
in comfort and technological marvel,
and we apologise for touching strangers,
a laughable polity,
a daft way to keep the peace.


This is post-harmony,
for those who found their place in the sun
and realise the sun burns some days,
holding a tension between warmth and furnace.
Safety may be an illusion
yet we throw out nets
to keep us fed.

She bites,
catching sharks,
showing fierce animals her power and her kindness,
throwing them back into deep waters,
having met their eyes and
stared out the strange energy
of human enterprise:
our wayward dreams,
our wild projects,
our dark passions bubbling up
through placid smiles,
our lines of capture
thrown into open seas.
Reeling in the bounty
to see what bit the booty.

She bites,
perhaps just to remind me,
that sometimes things are fucked up:
there is no ocean without waves,
there is no calm without storm,
there is no static without disturbance,
there is no attraction without frisson,
there is no text without punctuation.

What's the punchline?

She bites,
sharp indentations,
a jagged harp
plays jarring harmonies.

She bites,
to remind me.

Sometimes thunder strikes.
Stay aware.