"There's not much doubt in any of our minds that no complete idea springs fully formed from our brow,
needing only a handshake and a signature on the contract to send it off into the world to make twenty-five billion dollars.
The germ of the idea grows slowly..." - Walt Kelly

Thursday, April 4, 2013

Irregular apocalypse

Day Four: Write a poem with a title drawn from one of the spaceship names in Scottish sci-fi writer Iain M. Banks' "Culture" series.

In the beginning
there was logos,
a reason, but it was not a god.
It was a man.

He was of the people,
only occasionally by them
and never for them.

He was a flash of light
and the sharp tinge
of brass, horns blowing
in alarm and fury.

He was all information,
a slurry of misleading
soundbites and curses
mixed by the editor's hand.

The masses saw him
and knew not whether
to expect salvation or death,
whether to fly a white flag
or to sew a new one,
something buoyant and
of courageous conviction.
But they did know
what he stood for,
what would certainly follow.
They built themselves
fortresses, shields, things
to keep the sun
from burning them alive.

But they were wrong.
He landed and it was
silence, air that smelled
of steel and slick blood.
And then it was the
age-old battle -
speed versus power -
and everything was waking up.

Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Brand New, Not the Sun

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