The brain has a mind of its own
no matter what we think
the cells dream of past and future     and
even the stones in graveyards fall

This fragile and chameleon world driven
by butterflies I saw Darwin embodied
crossing the courtyard in September
dancing together in sunlight
and Valreas a diminishing dot on Google-Earth
as I pick up the flecks in the iris of change

but then again
if I look out as dusk burns down the sky
tiny clouds drift over the green horizons dense
patterns of southern foliage
my speech recedes into silence

the very eyes of the stars are stoppt
my maggotty-headed dreams unfinished
and dislocation all               though I come
from a place much further away
the dark side of this particular moon
but still I've no intention
of out-living all my teeth

God willing that I should live so long (is that
the subjunctive?)

Two men were shot in Manchester today
police surveillance Foucault realised
watch all the routes
all knowledge is provisional I say
so media conveys reflects and shapes
the gospel then according to St. Murdoch
the text a reified world

I will not serve

It is the demon of the will persist

And now the cricket scores

                                                                                                     Dec 2008