Never Let Me Down (again)

From up here I can see the gutters, the filthy gutters, the ones I am supposed to be looking up from at the stars. But no: I can see the fag ends, the leaf-mulch, the filth of the Thames, the blood of the rodents and the accumulated dirt of the valley floor.

The stars are behind me; though I can't see them I see their faint reflections in the dirt. They are diminished in the passage of light, even in the beauty of soil.

From here I travel through empty boughs and over the hardly moving meadow grass: the wild barley stays brittle in the stillness. There it is, dark, monochrome, given a sort of sub-illumination, unnoticed.

No-one cares about the stars, but the boughs hold tall over the valley, full and broad. They stand, despite the fall of time. They simply hold.

Give me the dirt, the essence of life and the rain, over a fascist, body-worshipping, death-cult sun-regime - any time.

Give me the lush, sinking soil on any day of my life. Let me look, fly, fall, sink and then merge in the full body of the ground.

Then I see the stars.

They are nothing. Literally nothing.

Here, life bleeds into soil and back again. Ideas crawl into the air and are picked up, mainly by people who don't want them.