The city has been aflame these past days. A quiet inferno on every street. Heavy-laden branches wreathed in the sublime. Wild and fleeting, irresponsibly abundant. A display far beyond necessity, asking deeper questions: Is all chaos? Did this exquisite artistry, and we who behold it, emerge from a blank void? Is life merely a dogged …
[“My Way” is by some margin the nation’s favourite funeral song. Yet the rank individualism, as old as Eden, which typifies our age, cannot save any of us from the end which awaits all of us. The dreary crematorium chapel scorns our attempts at self actualisation – we all go behind the dusty curtain in …
Icarus, Without the fated plunge, Is but a dreary grey-haired parable, Pragmatic unremarkable commute, Recklessness is crucial, The brazen rise to kiss Apollo, Weaves the gossamer of myth; In flushed freewheel of youth, Vital abandon strains, Frothing fervid at the bit, How easy to hold living light, While dew lies wet on years, Lightning racks the fertile mind, Thunder echoes …
