10/30/24

A Myth

A myth

The thing I said was hardly what I meant—
Lord knows there are no prizes for intent.
There have been rumours of a gathering
and sights of distant figures vanishing
down corridors of golden glass
and green lights racing through the grass.
But we are like children, clumsy and late:
death is not immediate.
The serpent’s sealed beneath the floor,
the black dog whines behind the door.
The earth is deaf and damp and brown
in the forlorn furrows of the town:
is this how it feels to drown?

What we read was almost what was meant:
we’d better have another argument.
A giant makes a mighty sound
howling in the old playground—
who knew his giant heart would break
when heaven said it was a fake?
The dog is shut outside the gate:
death won’t be immediate.

There will still be time for a meeting
and hours of televised debating,
for some kind of marvellous mistake,
and for mother to go and bake
caterpillars in your birthday cake.
In the stars above the town
London Bridge comes tumbling down:
Lord forgive us if we drown.

The things I said were hardly worth a cent,
but anyway it does one good to vent.
We still hear of parties in the evening
in houses on the hilltops everlasting
and convoys gliding through the night
to put out fires left and right—
but the truth is far from sure.

A thump, a thump against the door:
who knew a broken heart could pound
with such a loud commanding sound?
The giant lets the dog inside,
shivering and runny-eyed;
the serpent circles the debate,
polite, discreet, considerate—
death won’t be immediate.

Why not, then, for old time’s sake,
let us off the hook, give us a break?
Hobbling footsore through the town,
wicked weather bearing down,
Lord still love us if we drown.

10/4/24

Deep Time

Deep Time

Time counts, and keeps counting. Swiftly fly the years.
People, empires, species, come and go.
Continents drown, rise, dry out, drown again. Rinse, repeat.
The sun grows old and ill,
the great-grandcopies of our children’s children
play bingo in the last airdome,
waving their cilia, getting sillier.
Hell freezes over, the stars come right, the cows come home.
Your call has advanced in the queue
and will be answered, yea I say unto you,
by the next available service consultant.

10/1/24

Made of

Made of

Weevils and lice and plagues of mice
Tempests and gales and cold sea-snails
Needles and pins and monkey skins
Thickets and thorns and tall proud horns
Blossom and bees and gentle trees
Frankincense and fire

Beaks and hooks and buried books
Beasts from tapestries
Sighs and scars and scattered stars
Warrens and snares and lies
Harps and hares and magic squares
A hundred shining eyes

Owls and crows and old hedgerows
Weeds and wells and distant bells
Flies and frogs and hollow logs
A nest of wool and wire

Greening sod and leafing wood
Wine and silk and foxes’ milk
Puddles and roots and muddy boots
Foam and fish and ice

05/19/24

Wigs In Space

A few weeks ago I was playing with AI image generation, and ended up writing a parody sci-fi serial around some of the pictures. I made some more images to fit specific scenes, which was rather more difficult, and posted the result as Wigs In Space on Tumblr — perhaps not the best place for it, but I already had an account and the posting format was suitable. I had fun making this thing, but have had enough of AI for now. I enjoyed it more as a toy than a tool, as it seems to have no understanding of 3D space or individual objects.

Anyway, here’s Wigs In Space episode 1, with links to the other episodes.