Strangled Roots

If you base a society on an attitude of war you cannot be surprised that the violent spirit trickles down & attacks within the home ground because violence is wrong except when it is insitionalise & when it is far away for the purpose of gathering resouces.  But what can be done with a bulging population hungary & bored from living too inarticlate to describe the moments of love we wish to feel as a touch more than it is felt.  There’s too much of that which does not ease the working heart from too hard a beat.  Where is that softness of air, of water, that can envelop totally & closely, which polices are we to employ to give a freshness to the stale arteries, who can enforce a feeling of love between people? 

We, too concrete for plants, must build with force & brutality & strength agaisnt the crushing forces at work in the landscape of our habitation.  Where is our organic growth & how far shall the waste lay in ourselves, what important stems can be pruned away before holding the brittle twigs of an inconsequental bush that we may make into a nest to rest our beliefs, broken, bare. 

A lot of unsatisfactory movements that we make in the hope we may want to do the action we pretend to do.  Surface politness that skims over our fear or doubt with laughter, clever tricks & complicated style leaving us with a feeling we can glide on over the prickly uncertainty that has taken root in the abstract space where we place all of our confusion.  It is impondrable but it cannot escape thought where thought tries to untie the knotted trunks & the leafy web of veins with sadness, tiredness, getting choked in the horror of the impenetrable. 

Desire is no lord & it sits in no office making descions for organisation.  It is wandering, desperate, outside in confused rings of the brick buildings.  It is looking for scraps of missing smiles that may be littering in the blowing wind but mostly feeling the stale arid setting that congels & stiffens, it walks through mud digging for what should be there sinking in effort & needless hope for the hopeful need. 

Pigs could be happy in mud, maybe not even pigs, but people wish for water.  The water to bath & wash in keeping every pore in an accessible satifaction of plesurable sensation forgetting all but this thin delicate embrodery of happiness that we continually attempt to push forward to & make with out bits of rough string.

How can we ever be wrapped up enough in permenate garments too small to wear.