In the beginning there was:
*
I get inspiration from all sorts of places.
Books, movies, people, politics… It is a thing
that is never in short supply. At least, it is
rarely so. I am always scribbling, creating
generous poetry and educative prose, as well as
getting to know the people who appear
in my books. And it is good. At any rate,
I think that it is so. At times, however,
I see the rage and blaze that the world is,
and I do not know if I am right.
*
I call on you, the Muse,
to assist me in my hour of need.
Through only a little fault of my own,
I find myself in rather a sticky situation,
and need the aid of your celestial gifts.
Endow me now with a mighty, fine
pen, the power to transform words and
craft meaning out of chaos.
I shall await your response.
*
Summer is three months of Death.
During it fires gobble towns, and the sun
burns and lashes. Everything is decimated.
We must endure near-intolerable affliction.
It was in summer that I first hoisted sail, setting out
through whirlpools, tempests, and glassy waters,
that I first came out of my lethargy.
It was in summer that I unravelled
the wool over my eyes and could see.
And it was in summer that I began to teeter
over the abyss, to hurtle towards kaput.
*
I am
You are
We are… What we are.
Can we understand what is going on?
Of course not.
Can we be so bold as to ask why? Kill, kill, kill!
Should I perhaps ask again later?
By Oliver Cocks
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