all you can eat (6/August/18)

in the background a piano tricks the air into follow the leader, a Pied Piper of keys unlocking threads of persuasion… rowan berries have reddened too soon, “too soon!” cries the blackbird, “too soon!” begs the moon losing coherence in am omenic wane, will there be anything left come the winter?… the apples are pickable, how did that happen?… somebody ordered a helping of summer only to find it was a neverending ‘all you can eat’ promotion…. wasps confusedly rush to the plums as though their lives depended on it… and it does…… water, water everywhere, or so the myth goes as we drink, drink and be merrily wasting it hitherly-thitherly, wantonly, wistfully by making the most by using the most as though water grows on trees, all those trees, oh the trees being cut down one by ten by hundreds and thousands dragged from their roots in favour of houses built over gardens, levelling woodlands, built over fields, levelling hedgerows, bulldozer, bulldozer awoken again to rape and to beat the land to submission for more of the same and less of the green, fellows are felling, chopping and snedding all for the good of mankind, health and safety and anyway space is a premium and we’ve put a price on its heads and sold it for bricks  to developers waving their pricks comparing that my plot is bigger than yours… the piano is reaching its final accord on a chord that will signal the end as a day in the life of the seep-away light marches unashamed reaping the short-term with spade-loads of gluttony building them cheap and piling them high in a graveyard of those still breathing… “bring out your dead, bring out your dead!” your zombie-eyed seekers claw permanence from ephemera and hope for the best with their fingers and toes…. yesterday was summer, today is autumn, tomorrow we’ll see now won’t we and if there’s nothing much left, “well, we did our best”, or that’s what we’ll tell ourselves picking the skin from our bones……

© 2018 robert greig

leg-room (20/May/18)

every night an army of minute armoured armadillos, fourteen legs a-piece, sneak out and venture forth from underneath the skirting and into the what are wide open spaces of the bathroom, so featureless the vinyl floor do they even see the pattern, of they do then do they really think it’s would when it isn’t though it lets one think it is through the cunning of design but what do woodlice care for such things as design or chic or even kitsch, imagining they’re not so much the followers of fashion… but on braving such a brave new world it seems that soon before the night is done before the morning piques its cue they desiccate, semi-curl and die becoming husks having sloughed their final slough before they ever found themselves wandering the arid landscape having maybe took a wrong turn… or maybe not…… what are they thinking?… to leave the safety of the dark and damp, their havens in the cavities and hollows where they lightly feed on any old decay but here they are seeking what?…. and did they find it…… did they leave just as cats leave when they know it’s come their time and choose to find a quiet place to leave their breath behind?… even though there are more than one but I don’t think woodlice see that far and an inch can be quite a hike for such tiny, albeit, seven pairs of legs…… every morning here and there like an incidental graveyard, lifeless tiny bodies left for me to take them to their final resting place… the compost…

© 2018 robert greig

askewmetrical (22/Jan/18)

nothing in this house is straight… never has been… no two walls match each other perfectly, lines don’t meet, get one thing level and everything else looks out, get another thing level then that thing looks out…. trying to level one thing against another against another is a fool’s errand and bound to fail… this house is one eccentric block of convergence falling into a geometrically-challenged vanishing point… to call it asymmetrical would be stretching it beyond mathematical probabilities that any self-respecting architect would faint at the sight of, even the self-disrespecting ones would be challenged to a vernacularian duel…

it’s not that the house is haunted or anything like that, it’s too boring for that and no serious ghost would bother, not even living by a graveyard is enough to attract the odd spectre to spare  a boo or two…… pictures never stay straight, always skew-whiff, and when I try to straighten them I find them still askew as lining them up with the skirting will put them out with the ceiling, setting them to a door frame will throw them with a window pane, thus irrespective of what perspective one attempts to impose the house will always win and refuse to bow to my symmetrical whims…… not that I’m a model of symmetry, far from it, just look in the mirror…… on second thoughts, don’t…. damn!… too late……

bloodshot eyes, again, oh joy…… mirrors are just merciless, no respect for vanity despite what they appear… it’s what you see is what you get and no messing even though they cheat by making you think they’re showing you as you are when in fact they cheat and show you the wrong way around… the left on the right and the right, because there’s no room left on the right because the left has taken its place, is left to sulk on the left… right is right and left is left, these are givens, until you look in a mirror… then you have to start all over again working out left from right…… mind you, as regarding my eyes (laughs: regard… eyes…) they are both pretty much right and left bloodshot as seems to be my norm these days…. I shouldn’t have looked then I might’ve gone through the day in blissful ignorance……

I wouldn’t live in a totally symmetrical house anyway, wouldn’t be right (… or left)…. I’d live in a lighthouse if I could, or a windmill… I once lived in a lighthouse actually, although it wasn’t the round part of it, it was the keeper’s cottage attached…. I would though… but then I’d have to be aware that round can be symmetrical too although I can’t imagine lighthouses are completely with a bit of askewing here and askewness there……

© 2018 robert greig