We Cannot Read

(By Sil, Halens, Sweden, the 18th of August, 2011)

God’s summer cottage
Is ablaze this evening
Clouds kiss their impressions
On rusted water
Beauty delivered at high voltage
Mushrooms blister in the shadow
So much to harvest
Torn leaves from the
Book of nature
Lie now scattered in the meadow
And we cannot read
These woods have long been deserted
By fairies and dwarves
For under Sense’s
Monkish robe
One cannot dress Spirit
In bright silk scarves

Small Things

(By Sil, Copenhagen, the 15th of August, 2011)

Small things
Boxed up in definitive spaces
A mean tussle for order
Navigation by satellite
Lost from an inner sense of direction
Stars and domes
Purely ornamental
Running on a pier
a pathway
Into unmanned chaos
Spinning in the dark
Above a city forever dissolved by rain
Experiments with freedom
Behind graffiti walls
Have fun
Don’t run
No photo
Makeshift playgrounds
For improvised childhoods
Junkyard art
Revolution is a look
Over law’s shoulder
From time to time
The world needs recreating from scratch
But the Gods no longer envy
This Babel barrack

It Burns

(By Sil, the 8th of August, 2011, London riots)

Voices without faces
Itch for destruction
The streets become bull-rings
Rage demands satisfaction
It burns

I’m busy
Preserving my middle-class bubble
Sweeping up the garden
In the wind

I Get to See

(By Sil, the 8th of August, 2011)

Slip into the hour
A pocket of sanity
Let loose
Until we won’t know
What is yours, what is mine
Entangled humanity
Shared space; shared madness
And in this dance
We’ll slouch in tandem
We’ll tap our misery away
Stretch a leg
Itch in the head
Synchronised breathing
I get to see the hole between your legs
Your worn-out soles
And maybe you’ll notice a few things, too
My delinquency
Penchant for a dance with death
I am not steadfast
God knows I wobble
God knows I’m only two steps ahead
And I’ve been walking for years

A Silver Nutmeg and A Golden Pear

(By Sil, the 1st of July, London)

Sprout
From barren ground
Bear enchanted fruit
To lure a king’s daughter
A feat that only
The well loved deliver

But don’t climb the fence
Just for the thrill
Of a blushing pear’s kiss
The shudder of pulp crush
Against sore teeth

Allow the wind
A rush of whisper
To silence Fear’s hostile hiss
Wellcome the flail
With arms of gold and thoughts of silver
There is no sweeter ambush.

Confessio

By Sil
(the 1st of July, 2011
London)

I gave Luxuria legs to run on
I was intoxicated
With fumes of excitation
I got lost from time
Couldn’t find the handle on the door
Couldn’t see the gaps in the floor

Oh, God, don’t jab me
With the adrenaline-filled syringe
Administer a lesser punishment
For luxuriating in a reckless binge

I will repent
It was Pandora who opened the box
It was the Dark Priest
Who whispered casually over my shoulder:
“Lying is not one of the seven deadly sins”

Mea culpa
Mea culpa
Mea maxima culpa

The Silver Tree

(By Gub, the 30th of July, Hay-on-Wye)

Leaf'd willow
Bark'd oak
Or alder spine

The fruit falls
Sober flat
Upon the ground.

The buds that yearly
Blossom
Besmirched
By age
By time.

Tree's entropy
Pears turn to slime
And are crushed under foot
By innocent tramples
Not knowingly but once
Sourced
The loss forever
Associates fear with guilt
And... falling foliage, sound.

Forgotten child
Forget
Forgot

Further
Found...