I cannot write. There are no words of awe or cynical desperation that will do justice the machinery of the world.

There is a child with aids being born in Africa who, having lungs for some cosmically coincidental reason that will never fully develop will die within an hour of his birth, veering wildly about him at the strange shapes and colours with no words for the circles of the eyes or the grossness of light all around him, unable to differentiate what he is and what the world is, blinking and pulling madly at the air.

I cannot write.


Voice from the Innards

To watch the mud as it bubbles up into my weary ears
and starts to gain a tongue.
To watch the fire as it slings the mud around,
promoting arrogance with a burning celestial sphere
as if to taunt the emissaries of thought -
is to know nihilism.

I don’t know what it is about you
that is shouting and is suddenly silent
when you see the fruit of your labours
in the wick of a candle;
I don’t know what it is about you
that refuses to embrace the cradle that rocked you,
even when you were cold and not at all
mocking me with your rocky tongue.



It moves like silk on the red carpet
with lions thighs and two hundred earthly eyes
blinking in high definition awe -
and all around it the people are shouting:
“It’s the packs mundusa!”
and he is the saviour.

In their sick lawn chairs
the suited men toast and swirl their glasses,
laughing and laughing,
(the ice cubes like little continents
in a bloodied sea spin maddeningly),
while the trumpets in the band sound behind them
roaring like thunder,
grappling the Earth with entropy.

But I see the streak of red in your eyes
as you rise on the platform you robotic beast,
and I know no one can stop you now.