Dust

VHS and home cinema:

localise actual event within media.

A meta/ virtual reality,

accepted as reality.

The reality of the other;

facts no more visceral.

Markets creates visual space.

Containment arrests aural focus.

A cave for memories

to weep indignantly,

sore with internal disappointment.

Every man the same

in the petty and commonplace,

but in truth

everyone harbours the most

incredible difference.

 The petty is always easier to pin down,

like coat tails,

which people are to careful not to remove.

So they sit still

terrified of what lies within.

So the appearance of apathy,

it's untrue. Mere refraction.

The soul is untouchable.

So the VHS hums

amidst vector-like movement

within memories travelling between cities.

Brightly rendered items to hold.

Hopscotch between vibrance

& rendered light,

as though the real experience; 

some tangible, ordered form.

Then the nearly-silent moving disk

in bedrooms at dusk;

blue encompassing light dulling the moonlight

Though silent it absorbs

and upon waking that seamless

colourful narration despises reality

and the petty rustic pages.

We are overwhelmed.

By the strangeness of daylight

and daydreaming through these

dazzling particles of light.

They linger in the sky from Victorian furnace

from the charred remains of a Holocaust.

And Anne Frank is obsolete in stereo,

a Dictator's speech is entertainment,

on a streamlined encyclopaedia.

If they ignore it, it's meaningless

Instead we talk of Rome,

Egyptian symbols.

Sketch a depiction that is extra ordinary

and it is called wonderful and art.

But Anne Frank whirs in clipped cassette

and her remains kicked up between

daydreams and dust.

The stereo veers life into comprehension.

Now your nerves spark maliciously:

nerve endings that are unknown

between the shards of traffic

that you ought to be frightened of.

Between the nails that have felt no dirt

and the afternoons spent holding pencils,

shavings from spent forests

equating bold undoing of former roots.

So between many plateaus we see only one.

Ascending scales and already discerned rhythms

that came from pure light

but are now well rendered upon walls.

We look at them in our mutual darkness

and we do the reverential dance

towards genius that is misunderstood.

Away from the sunlight;

if only we could turn our eyes

from the authored containment.

Us in our hysterical towns

poisoning ourselves inside our cave.

We remain in the same bureaucratic shell

that devastated a world.

T.S. Eliot drinks coffee and writes

odes towards and about cats

P.G. Wodehouse eccentrically skips

through Fascist ropes

as the light skips underneath tiny crevices.