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Once upon a time, my history was stolen  —

and filed away for good. 

I guess I was complicit, telling stories of the 

Tiny childlike pains they wanted to fill their story books.

There was too much, too many little solemn hurts, 

Too many girlish loves and mirror-kisses, too many 

Accidents in car backseats and toilet bowls and euphoric outbursts —

They broke me. 

Now all I can remember is running up and down the stairs 

for ever

Waiting for the verdict: was I sick or was I well? 

They weren’t going to take me away but it was too dangerous

To let me keep believing, so they wiped my memories away. 

In their place a precious, heavy pill, and dimness. 

All neurons go,

But soft responses garner no repose.

What’s a stimulus to do? Keep pandering,

Reiterating, tittering, and changing the rules of the game.

Not too long ago, it took

Some twenty small sensations to garner one repsonse. Then ten.

The body learns, the brain teaches, fear.

The stuff of dreams, of nightmares, of casual thoughts —

That’s evolution. That’s change we can believe in,

If not quite. If only when, survey says —

Eliminate all doubts from your mind, those lines form a dog.

Facts dominate the landscape today.

Can’t say when it started, but it’s plain

And hard to argue with projections, rock, sky. Capped

With snow and coldness, they are liable

To blow at any minute. Not live, but when is a

volcano ever not?

Obsequious, black and precious, the cold stone

Harbours hidden power: the strongest magnet you

Have ever seen. Pulling your compass, inexplicably,

Away from the good, true North. Somewhere Northeast,

They say, but really, there’s only one solution.

It’s been demagnetized.

Posting some old poems here as part of a new plan to write something every day. Yes, every day. We’ll see if that’s actually possible. 

These hills are filled with mines

And they are majestic, mine, well, 

Soon they will be mine and not the bank’s. 

And their covering of trees 

isn’t just about the breeze, it’s 

Also rife with fruit and nut and meat. 

So many reservoirs of ice are much 

more than being nice, they touch

Upon a need that’s pressing, flowing clear. 

For the economy is such that there’s 

Never quite enough, nowhere’s

Certainly not more than what we’ve found here. 

And we’ll fish on wine and niceties

And we’ll fast on streams below the trees

We’ll supine and whine and save us please

From these completely new complexities

That break out when you’re not starving.

Neven Mrgan's tumbl: I liked the old Facebook login better

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