Sunday, August 1, 2010

Roses

It is sometimes hard to write with a family and job and et cetera - so this took about a week to write and in the end i just the said the hell with it and called it quits. Poss is TS Eliot, as in 'old possums book of idiotic cats'.

This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
The Hollow Men





yet say this to the Possum: a bang, not a whimper,
...
To build the city of Dioce whose terraces are the colour of stars.
Canto 74

The photo is from the cascades female factory




The roses are slow to rouse themselves
Tight buds build slowly to blossom
As the afternoon light creeps off
To bed later and later each day.

This is poss, how it ends, not a bang
Nor a whimper. The cracking sound
Of ice, the crackling rain forest
Fire, a sudden belch of methane.

The echoing murmur of the wealthy
Perverting discourse of lies and doubt.
This is how it ends, fearful
Unable faceless desires

Not a bang not a whimper not swaying
From the lamp posts. Spasmodic crisis
Looping collapse makes bird song still,
Ends the soft mouse rustling grass.

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