Human After All
Vi Veri Veniversum Vivus Vici
So, where to begin on our journey
across the waters to Cruithne?
That strange old place that reels in
you by the scruff of the neck
and kicks you around like rocks
and wishes you a fond farewell.
I have seen the population;
day by day it shrinks, shrinks
and looks more
like the
solid remnants of dirty dishwater
in the proverbial kitchen sink.
Why we go is an unanswerable question.
That odd place that pulls you in
scruff of the neck, scruff of the neck
Kicked like rubble, surrendered a
fond farewell.
String and cellotape hold our minds together
and unflappable as we may seem,
we are but human, after all.
The roads are treacherous indeed, rotting
animals groaning at the sides, glorifying
the impatient ugly world
being destroyed by the big, bad wolf.
Hunting it down and time waits not.
Not for the bad wolf or the
strange old place or you or I or him.
But how we rage against the animal kingdom,
with all their teeth and claws and stings.
Who would have thought we could kill everything
With flint and sparks and rocks and gas?
Nothing is beyond reason as we commit animalistic treason.
Why we stay is the unanswerable question.
Do not ask it yet, do not ask
why we go and why we stay
and the purpose of the journey.
Oh, we raise our weary cry;
we are but human, after all.
So the waters still and the sun dies for the evening,
painting her blood on the sky like a
Turner prize artist, art of nothing but
the old shock-horror that affects no one anymore.
Immune to reality, immune to care
and questions always asked too late.
At Cruithne we will dine on beetroot and
a human hand dipped in honey
in the moonlight moonshine starlight.
We cannot contemplate the Apocalypse
without some minor
side effects of the mind.
This psychiatry is not completely
off-the-wall or induced by chemical
compounds of varying degrees.
No longer are my eyes subdued
in foetal glaze - this is not an option
in this universe.
No longer are our
vowels clipped - we am stripped
of my possessions and we are
born anew.
Insect from a human chrysalis -
such biological nonsense! We should not exist
And yet, here we stand.
And time waits for no man
insect or wolf. And waiting is a
sin, where to begin, where to begin.
Eyes are burning now, veins are
mutating. Somehow, this evolution
is unrecognised.
I am here and not here -
Solipsism vainglorious.
And no such purposes to our visit.
And I see them; I see them all
in their glittering palls
under the moonlight, under the starshine.
But they are nothing to us;
we are but human, after all.
Time ripples as the heart drops -
marbled, dead - a fossil of a love story.
And it itches and it repeats
in my head, in my head.
Are you eternal like the dark energy
which exists forever and ever amen?
I have no such joy.
I flinch and mutate like influenza and
choke all mundane
realism and hope. Poison Ivy
flitting between frost and fire -
all and nothing, one and zero.
You! Star that time forgot.
My antimatter doppelganger,
Basal ganglia of my heart.
And where shall we meet
except in my dreams?
In my nonsense dreams of
places that drag people in
with their strangeness?
It means nothing,
only in my dreams.
So, where to begin on our journey
across the waters to Cruithne?
That strange old place that reels in
you by the scruff of the neck
and kicks you around like rocks
and wishes you a fond farewell.
I have seen the population;
day by day it shrinks, shrinks
and looks more
like the
solid remnants of dirty dishwater
in the proverbial kitchen sink.
Why we go is an unanswerable question.
That odd place that pulls you in
scruff of the neck, scruff of the neck
Kicked like rubble, surrendered a
fond farewell.
String and cellotape hold our minds together
and unflappable as we may seem,
we are but human, after all.
The roads are treacherous indeed, rotting
animals groaning at the sides, glorifying
the impatient ugly world
being destroyed by the big, bad wolf.
Hunting it down and time waits not.
Not for the bad wolf or the
strange old place or you or I or him.
But how we rage against the animal kingdom,
with all their teeth and claws and stings.
Who would have thought we could kill everything
With flint and sparks and rocks and gas?
Nothing is beyond reason as we commit animalistic treason.
Why we stay is the unanswerable question.
Do not ask it yet, do not ask
why we go and why we stay
and the purpose of the journey.
Oh, we raise our weary cry;
we are but human, after all.
So the waters still and the sun dies for the evening,
painting her blood on the sky like a
Turner prize artist, art of nothing but
the old shock-horror that affects no one anymore.
Immune to reality, immune to care
and questions always asked too late.
At Cruithne we will dine on beetroot and
a human hand dipped in honey
in the moonlight moonshine starlight.
We cannot contemplate the Apocalypse
without some minor
side effects of the mind.
This psychiatry is not completely
off-the-wall or induced by chemical
compounds of varying degrees.
No longer are my eyes subdued
in foetal glaze - this is not an option
in this universe.
No longer are our
vowels clipped - we am stripped
of my possessions and we are
born anew.
Insect from a human chrysalis -
such biological nonsense! We should not exist
And yet, here we stand.
And time waits for no man
insect or wolf. And waiting is a
sin, where to begin, where to begin.
Eyes are burning now, veins are
mutating. Somehow, this evolution
is unrecognised.
I am here and not here -
Solipsism vainglorious.
And no such purposes to our visit.
And I see them; I see them all
in their glittering palls
under the moonlight, under the starshine.
But they are nothing to us;
we are but human, after all.
Time ripples as the heart drops -
marbled, dead - a fossil of a love story.
And it itches and it repeats
in my head, in my head.
Are you eternal like the dark energy
which exists forever and ever amen?
I have no such joy.
I flinch and mutate like influenza and
choke all mundane
realism and hope. Poison Ivy
flitting between frost and fire -
all and nothing, one and zero.
You! Star that time forgot.
My antimatter doppelganger,
Basal ganglia of my heart.
And where shall we meet
except in my dreams?
In my nonsense dreams of
places that drag people in
with their strangeness?
It means nothing,
only in my dreams.