Attack of the Vapours

Human Nature loves a vacuum
See how quickly it is filled
With all noisome indiscretions
And as hastily distilled

People breathing in the moonshine
They’re producing at the glug
Willing workers in the factory
Where the atmosphere’s a drug

All tottery and swivel-eyed
Hysteria has found its place
Rebranded as the stuff of life
That fumes and ripens off its face

How long before this tolerance
For clumsy, loud and noxious gas
That permeates to radiate
Achieves its critical mass?

How long before resistance freaks
And turns to intervene
And closes down production
Of the poison in the steam?

Stencilling

Generations of Revolution:
Stencilled shadows;
The traced punctuation of fealty to forgetting
And wistful recovery.
Ranting for melodrama;
Tinkering at the edge of increment
And, always, the bitten hand that feeds.

base-mood

What if arithmetic were underpinned by the base-mood system:
if its virtues were no more than the sum of
popular feelings, mischievous algorithms and smoke-filled echo chambers?