farewell but not forever
to a stonehenge of the mind,
another cloud of glory left behind
i must refind
SOMETIMES of a mushroomed evening by my campfire
if i'd bothered to collect the wood
i'd sit
once when taking a cosmic shit)
sometimes with straight but relaxed spine
if i'd bothered to collect myself
or slumped in anarchic bliss - or overdosed sloth
and i'd contemplate
across that rolling Salisbury plain from our pagan camp
the serried ranks of antiseptic orange lights of the distant military town
where nuclear family units worshipped tv gods
through cross-shaped antennae
on each democratically rectangular concrete roof
- SWEET CHRIST!
and Mescalito - or whatever you want to call Hir (goddess!) - would blow aside a veil of mist, enough to let me see the cosmic joke or blasphemy which You revealed was this: scratching, heaving another log on the fire, if i had one, then i'd weep at our fall from grace and pray for the strength to, and You revealed that this cellophane condom of corporate life, and now i can forgive these ungerminated people-who-have-not-yet-chosen-to live! for we tecno-pagans are the long-term-timeless future
those neither spiritual nor yet earthy SUN worshippers
stuffing their inner space with .. stuff
that came complete with FoodBiz guarantee
(don't laugh too loud, Lord, you'll tear your hands, here, let me kiss!)
that these, these ... "modern" military monstrosities were
airconditioned to perceive us pagans as living in the past!
(can you believe it?!!)
while you let me see, as, at your merest intention, a cloud lifts,
that their spoonfed double-glazed present
was no present for me - nor was it interest-free
- trust not the US Army bearing gifts!
farting,
and wrapping divinely sweaty body deeper in Afghan blanket,
i'd follow my inner eye along abandoned bug-free avenues,
over grass that dared not breathe its name,
past pining hi jacked flowers to the very "living rooms"
where those poor supermarket souls
munched flavor-enhanced happiness additives
in centrally heated hells
and tv-dined on individually sliced, pastel-coloured reality-positionings for their world view
- of You, Lord.
it's true, Lord!
to do what i could for my lost human race
whose sterile plague laminates the counter of our dirt-y earth,
is unsound
- by galactically monetarist standards it is not here!
- a mere mindmedia hologram,
as arbitrary and rootless as a new town.
for all its polluting might
- a mere trick of Time's light,
which thins, it seems, as it spreads.
despite their Plans and Schemes,
it keeps coming apart at the dreams.
properly seeded by us, they will realise its worth
and one day learn to dig our dirt-y earth.
of their past,
Nature's Camp where you and me, like the dogs, piss free.