Some Theatrical Branches of the Muse’s Vine, Which Are Legitimate Topics of Poetry
Their saltpetre trajectories are split at the root. One traces the destruction of all good surfaces, the horrific ruin of delicate epithelia. It pollutes the other, yes and spices it, the depth and artifice the flat sky gets lent.
They are liked by small children though not by pets. And indeed, children don’t neglect to write poems about them. This tendency creeps in with adulthood and is a mistake. Up, up up! Tris! Tris! Bang!
They sketch a ghostly commons from incandescent specks. It is our chemical weather, susceptible to drift, ornate mixture of earth and breath. Even for a private celebration, they are sent up over the wall.
Solitary and emulsified by rain, or packed in so the cordite pricks each nostril. No-one trusts them, the claim to pure expenditure and nothing back, the way they compel a crowd to crane upwards.
from Weather A System (London: Penned in the Margins, 2009).