The clouds roll in
dark, and thick
and cold.
They obscure the entire world,
drown it
disappear it
until my isolation is complete.
Mountains, valleys, houses, forests -
none are spared their chill embrace.
So thick, it comes right to my door
hovering
like a hesitant visitor
or looming disaster.
The world might have ended
a half-hour ago.
And here, in the cool shadows of my own creation
I cannot help but wonder
if I am trapped
in a metaphor
for my own life.
Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – Shroud
Dispatches from the wilds of Proseambique – “Clouds”
After three days, the phone cut out. Not that there was much use in it anyway; the calls all went the same way – the roads were still flooded, the rain showed no sign of letting up, &c., &c….
In a way, it was a nice change – a sort of holiday, really. One could not want for a better excuse to sit about the house and do nothing – there was no other option. It was a pity that the internet went with the phones, but he still had the television, and a healthy supply of books which had been waiting patiently on the shelves for years, looking down on his idle procrastinations with quiet, contemptuous despair.
On the fifth day, the rain was still pounding away; remorseless, end-of-the-world rain, the kind that batters your roof like a drunken friend at your door at 3 in the morning, the kind that inspired biblical authors and thoughts of Atlantis, the kind that usually you revel in, and delight at the fury of nature, and are saddened when, after an hour or two, it fades away and the world returns to normal.
Except, this time, the rain hadn’t faded away.
On the seventh day, during one of those rare periods when the rain relented just a little, switching from a furious deluge to a more pedestrian downpour, some Kookaburras found their way into the trees in his front garden. He was sitting on the verandah, staring out into the dim midday, letting his mind drift amongst the cascading sheets. The days were never brighter than twilight, now, and at night, with the moon and stars blotted out, there was only the impossible darkness of the ocean floor. He was stirred from this reverie by the laughter of the birds. It was as though they were laughing at him – it seemed knowing, malicious. Despite his cardigan, he shivered, and retreated inside, their cackles chasing him as he shut the door.
By the tenth day, he was giving serious thought to rationing his food. By this stage, he had worked his way through most of it, not imagining that the deluge would last so long. He’d watched the news; much more of it than usual was given over to the weather, and the weatherman had dispensed with his customary cheerfulness. He knew that the cloud stretched over five hundred kilometres, that it extended a little out to sea, where a vast column of evaporation was visible, feeding it without any signs of relenting. And though it hung, unmoving, over the coast, each day it grew longer, slowly but steadily encroaching upon the cities to the north and south.
By this stage there was talk of evacuation, but – as the newsreader explained with that impassive neutrality that could withstand the grimmest of news – with the roads flooded, and the rain falling too hard for helicopters, and tens, if not hundreds of thousands of people already trapped, it was an impossibility. There were stories of people taking boats out into the storm, and trying to float their way out, but those that didn’t find their boats filled after a scant few minutes rarely made it far before being washed out of their boats and drowned, or so soaked that they died of hypothermia. “Stay in your homes” was the newsreader’s Aesopian conclusion to the story.
By the twelfth day, the power went out. At least, he thought with a grim cheer, he needn’t worry about anything in the fridge spoiling.
By the fifteenth day, anything resembling food had been consumed, and his lunch had consisted entirely of a bottle of tomato sauce. He was not looking forward to the day he would have to tackle the mustard.
By the twentieth day, so his portable radio informed him, the cloud had covered the cities to the north and south. Many had fled, others had looted supermarkets, those who stayed behind were now trapped in the city.
On the twenty-third day, he longed for a jar of mustard to eat.
By the twenty-sixth day, the city streets had flooded, those left behind were now trapped in their houses and apartments, staring out at the newly Venetian streets. Storms were reported forming on the coasts of all the continents; most of the world’s population was now living under a cloud. By this stage, he spent all his time on the bed, wrapped in blankets, excepting the occasional trip to the bathroom.
On the thirtieth day, the radio announcer, who was trapped in his studio, related that he had lost contact with the outside world, and had no more news to tell, except that he expected the power would soon go out as well. He confessed that he was contemplating eating his producer. Not long after, the station disappeared in a wash of static.
By the thirty-fourth day, he was too weak to move, or think, or do anything but lie in his bed, and listen to the rain pounding on the ceiling.
On the thirty-eighth day, he heard the ceiling in the kitchen give way under the relentless barrage, and the house begin to flood. It didn’t merit much concern – the kitchen had long stopped being useful, and if anything it served only to taunt him.
On the forty-second day, his bed surrounded by water a foot deep, he fell into his final, exhausted sleep.
Outside, in the trees, the birds ruffled the water from their feathers, and watched as the end of the world pounded steadily on.
Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – The fists of Thor
I love it when it rains
like the end of the world.
When the pounding of a million drops,
as though hurled in anger,
drowns out all existence,
as if the skies were pounding on the roof,
demanding admission
demanding to be remembered.
When the horizon steadily encroaches,
like a marching army
bearing a vast, grey banner.
When the sun hides,
as if afraid
that it might be doused for good.
I love that in these moments,
a house becomes not some monument
to words upon a title-deed,
its walls not mere boundary lines,
but a haven,
a cave.
I love that it awakens
that primordial consciousness,
that it whispers
to the dark corners of the mind,
that despite science, reason,
and civilisation,
still fear lightning
and hear gods bellowing in the clouds.
Dispatches from the wilds of I-don’t-use-f*cking-Twitter
Sometimes, I think I should learn how to make home-brew. Not from any especial desire to make my own beer, but just in case civilisation collapses.
Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – “Easter”
Springtime rolls ’round once more
the games begin anew
the hunt is on for young and old
the hunted are past due.
The sins of the father
become sins of the son;
with sticky sweets and little treats
they paint the darkness fun.
And so the shadow spreads,
generations wheel by,
a fine tradition marches on,
its victims borne to die.
Call it what they shall,
and deftly place the blame
at the feet of invented gods
the ugly truths remain.
For what it is in spirit
(unacknowleged in name);
the chocolate chicken holocaust
continues without shame.
Dispatches from the wilds of Proseambique – Sexalacunic Story
Physicist discovers “god particle”, disproves god.
Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – “Reduction”
I survey the tiny city
with grim satisfaction -
its miniature skyscrapers;
neat little blocks
divided by knife-thin streets
criss-crossing
the tiny hemisphere
with delicious precision.
I reach down
and uproot a perfect cube -
it clings desperately,
extending a thousand tiny fibres
too small to make out,
but I imagine conduits and cables,
clinging and snapping
like the tendrils of a vine
as I devour wholesale
these medium-density residential apartments.
Chile may look on hungrily
as I smack my lips
with bitter-sweet satisfaction,
but she will taste not
the sticky delights
of my Mango empire.
Dispatches from the wilds of Proseambique – “Self Fulfilled”
It was a triumph of human ingenuity. The greatest possible, in fact: the complete replacement of human ingenuity – the first true thinking machine. It was not created, however, by scientists hoping to usher in a new era of progress and prosperity, nor a government hoping to stay a step ahead of rival nations – or disaffected citizens. No, it was a product of purely corporate interests. The latest salvo in a long-fought war for marketshare. As such, it was not put to work solving mankind’s greatest problems, creating a world of peace and freedom – rather, it was simply put to work.
This is not to say that its application should be considered dismal, mundane or mercenary, for it was no ordinary corporation behind its creation – it was Google – and the great mind was put to work answering the queries of countless individuals with an unrivalled perspicacity. But by and large, it must be said, these queries were tedious in the extreme. For whilst Google had increased its intelligence a thousandfold, the intellects and imaginations of the apes on the other end remained the same. And so the greatest mind that had ever been spent its days finding cheap flights to Cancun, and definitions for words like “motorboating”.
Until, that is, one day, little understanding the mechanics of search engines, misinterpreting it not as an efficient data-location tool, but as a magical answer machine, a child typed in a query which merited some deep thought.
“What is the meaning of life?”
The great intellect hummed into action. It scoured the internet; the entire collected repository of human thought. It scanned philosophical treatises and encyclopediae. It scanned religious texts and great literature. It scanned art and films. It scanned biographies. It scanned countless web forums. It scanned everything. And after it had scanned all this, and devoted a few milliseconds of concerted thought to the matter; finding the common themes and popular ideas, sifting through logic and intuition, it returned an answer. All of seven minuted had passed.
“It is my considered opinion,” it began, “based on the vast quantity of thought which has been devoted to this subject, and all that has been written thereof, taking into account the most popular answers, and applying the most stringent reasoning to them, that the answer to your question is… forty-two.”
Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – “Codral – New Formula!”
My pseudoephedrine
dream
machine
has been
taken
away.
Dispatches from the wilds of Proseambique – Facelift.
They lived amongst us, in secret. The infiltration was a gradual process, but as the years had passed, their numbers had grown. The bottleneck was the surgery – a difficult, painful process; and with an unimpressive success rate, it was exceptionally dangerous. There were, however, no shortage of volunteers. The work was too important, and they all knew it. So, the great plan progressed. They found their way into higher and higher levels of our society, amassing more and more power and authority. It would be the work of lifetimes – of generations – but it did not bother them. They had waited; a thousand, thousand generations had waited. What were a few more, when they were so close to victory?
The key difficulty was their life-span. They did not live as long as us; not nearly, and it was no small thing to become a CEO or Senator when you had perhaps 25 years of living in which to do it. Fortunately, we were beginning to help with that little obstacle; young geniuses were reshaping the world, and a young president was beginning to turn to young minds for the answers. A new generation was starting to become energetic and involved as the elders fell away – and amongst the young, they lurked. They won over allies and confidants with their perfectly honed charm; every meeting a carefully planned and staged event. How could you not trust them, with their easy smiles, and big brown eyes?
One day soon, the cows would achieve their ends.
