18.2.015 17th and Western (a mess of a work in progress)

Beneath the cracking concrete flats,
The Earth is (still) there.
In the low hum of winter:
Grass, upspringing (still) from ruptured capillaries, spidery little things
Tracing pathways and outlining
Something dead, and lifeless
Chalk-white, really
Bone-like, even
A monochromatic overpaving
Of wild and unruly life.
Wellspring whence we all came.
And to which we are wont to return
Denying, (still) denying
That we, too, are our-selves the natural world
(Still) unending and changing;
All overpavings illusory, milk-white
And just as useless
Harmful, even
Detrimental, it is said
To a system which has no use for the lactose therein.
Useless.
Yet
(still)
:
That promise.
We like to be lied to, we have a need
For concrete promises breaking, and yet
Don't understand;
Why.
Pave over the grass.
I (still) do not understand.

In the low hum of winter:
The Earth is still there

Beneath the salted concrete flats.

Bone-white, really.





Under the summer sun:
Radiant heat (useless)
Might burn through my feet
Soles a conductor, (longing to walk upon the bare earth)
Heat rising quickly through the bones in my leg, white-hot pain in my sacrum
(I fear I might vomit)
The heat rising from the spidered concrete flat
Burning the air from my lungs,
Cracking my throat
(Chalk-white, a promise)
Blistering the skin from my hands, my head
Capillaries rupturing in my nose
(Cool blood dribbling down)