we’ve put ourselves deep in the well.
that much is certain, back against
cold brickwork, fingertips scratching
lines in the dust. if there was someone
up there, stood in the right spot,
we could talk like we were side by side.
but we’re not, so it’s silent. it’s a full
silence, thick, settling. it begets more
of itself till we’re terrified to move
and disturb it, then that thought
gets blanketed too. in the book,
he sits down here for so long
that he appears somewhere else,
like almighty plot took pity on him
and decided to move things along.
we, however, deny our purpose.
we’re content to sit.
wall. bury your hands in the dirt
and pull up trees, thick trunks
mad with colour and ivy. draw
a circle, sit. seat. silence. be still,
obsessed with breath, feel the cold
of air in your nose, count, focus,
burn away all else. your thoughtless,
blood, flesh, a command, imperative;
remember what you are, and who
you need to be. say it till you know it.
that there’s meaning to be found
in near enough anything. that said,
it isn’t my job to provide it. instead,
i say vignette a lot, wax terrified
about memory, talk to the wolf
amidst stones dipped in the river.
it’s exaltation in nothingness, absence,
a moment of a druid, blood and salt
on oak bark – and it means nothing,
unless it does. there might be meaning
in the moment, but here we see
refraction, bounced words rebranded,
chosen, cultivated – or not, plucked,
dropped, abandoned. it doesn’t matter.
that’s a point, if not the. silence, fuck it.
my disconnects are starting to grow, like
age and wisdom, writing and meaning,
today and tomorrow. blur, vignette, burst
flutter of. . nothing. words about words,
asshole pontifications about pontificating.
this is too self referential, now.
so, recap. mark a year,
note the passing time
like it felt normal, clear
your mind of singularities
and asshole writing thoughts.
should you start making sense, now?
you or your writing, pick one – no.
it should feel effortless, like breathing.
but it doesn’t, and anyway, breath’s hard.
it should be something.
that we can agree on, but
this counts as an asshole writing thought
chamber’s quiet now. advice
then commands echoed here,
when there were folk to listen.
they’ve gone. it’s not your fault,
i’m sure – but after all that noise
the walls creep like ivy, wrapping
silence into the heart of things.
there’s the faith we had,
dredged up from the riverbed.
momentary, revisionist – we
saw betrayal coming, of course,
that muted the sting. it’s justice
that we’re here, now, twisted
place, backstreet thoughts
and signposts, declarative,
imperative. walk, spiraling down
like running water, blacken
cityscape with intrusive nurture.
badly memorise the days we lost,
pause. and move on.