Caught, but alive. Yesterday you were loose and free; today tight and strained. An outside force must be to blame for these declines: for how can I be moved without something moving me? You flew, she thinks, you flew into this web with your own wings, but you'll need more than wings to get back out.


You try to recollect how you got here, but draw a blank. This is just the present, the same as it always was.


Pre-apocalyptic winds
tear down the shed in shreds.
Pollarded trees, still living, these
bend with the weather
and stand unbroken as youth.

How many years have passed
me by while I have sat here,
hypnotised through gloom and grief?
Each day I must believe I can
break through; and yet each night

the darkness must return.
One day, I will look back
and see this former self and ask it
why it dwelled so long
on rotting wood and fallen leaves.


Remember, so that you may forget


Twins on a train address their affections to one another, vibrate with the confidence of requited love, find in their sibling beauty and equality, hold hands, brush cheeks. Theirs a taboo desire, yet love all the same.


For I am a stranger with thee, and a sojourner as all my fathers were.


Debasement is uniquely human: nature, red in tooth and claw does not negate animal affections. But the human, finding in perception standards and rules, gives itself power to debase and victimise. So runs my dream: but what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry.


This park's dialogue is between hunter and forager, hide and seek, lusting and leaving. I witness the captivity of every thing in its nature, and find my self breathless.


If a face is changed, a demeanour lost, a routine broken, what promise is there that he who was still is? Transposed, disrupted, and dislocated, the cells of his very organs have, like cooling wax, reformed. The mind must bind and synchronise, absorb and represent.


A new year's novelty is predictable and predicted: old. To wipe the slate clean affirms a past. But to mark the slate again projects a future, refuses mortality for another day.


Depression makes time itself heavy, transforming it into a force that bears down, squares up, bristles. No sooner have the curtains been opened than night falls again. Time adopts the gloomy suspicions sequestered by that veil: resist it with filaments, screens, and microwave dinners.


We might wonder that we can communicate at all, transform inner worlds into outer words, set our bodies in a common ground, mire ourselves in a no-man's-land of symbols and terms and expectations. Yet even in our solitude we are with our thoughts. They are the words of others heard, learned, saved up, rewound, remixed, distended, distorted, replayed. Only then can thought take on the neutrality of language. My idiolect, parasitic on the others, guarantees that community cannot be escaped.

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