We are on a train,
you and I
and the people we know,
rushing towards a tunnel.
But we do not sit like good little passengers
staring remotely past one another
at the glories of Brighton Pavilion,
Lake Windermere, Kew Gardens
or The Yorkshire Moors framed
beneath the luggage rack.
Not on your life! Our heads are far out of the open windows
feeling the blast of cold air
the adrenalin stream,
looking ahead to the tunnel rushing to meet us,
waiting for death, but not believing it will come.
They have posted a warning above each window
stating in simple English, clearly, the dangers that lurk.
But no, the adrenalin now is a flood, and we
may be beyond the point of no return.
what we feel is more real
than what we are told
what we know.
Look ahead - the tunnel still unmistakably there
and all is a blur:
a world that is flying
and out of our control.
Do we hope that the slipstream will blow us apart?
free us from ourselves,
we'll take the walls in our stride,
through the concrete without breaking sweat?
Because everything for so long has been smoke and mirrors
and solid things we have seen melt away,
can we believe that
the next catastrophe
will be of no more
substance than what has gone before?
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
Hello everyone who follows David King (My Father). On behalf of the family this post is to let you know that Dad sadly passed away, peacefu...
This post has in a sense been handed to me by two or three responses to my post On not getting it. In the course of discussing how a reade...
Tom Lubbock, writing in The Independent (friday 15 May 2009) returned to the age old topic of censorship in the arts. Well, in painting act...