In winter running

 In Winter running through the past

What lives are these, these lives that last?

And turn fresh leaves into the grass

What lives are these, these lives that last?

In summer, blossom crowns the crows

And all black death goes rolling home

When bones are dug and bonanzas known

What lives are these that rest in stone?

In winter running through the spring

Time's tap runs fast, what joy life brings

But in these days of autumn glass

I see darkly, dimly how all things pass

In winter running through the trees

Brave squirrels defending terroritries

And crouching ducks waddle down the lawn

As I walk out soon just past dawn

In winter running summer's sand glass

Hours, minutes, seconds pass

But I count no grains

For no grain lasts

Except the truth, yet no shadows it casts

In these winter paths

 In these winter paths

Where I wind from summer's laughs

The kiss of the wind versus the scarfs

All along these winter paths

In these winter paths I see my life 

In chandelier staffs

And coloured calfs on rolling hills of green

The ocean like a memory of a film scene

But real to real I had a head telegraph

Who told me sned the branches

Of the pines like giraffes

They bow their heads

Then nod as if at me to laugh

In these winter paths

In these winter paths

Britain

 You who hide behind your job's place

The security of position

 What are you waiting for?

Your own souls are dying

You have surrounded yourselves

In the fat and grease

To protect you from the from the Viking hoards

Who come pillaging at your door

You may pay them off

With all your riches

Protect yourselves

From war

Or real risk

You who

Fatly waddle

Down your streets of pleasant peace

Hollow art

 A picture of you is a sketch at best

A portrait I guess

To capture your soul

Or to exhibit your beauty

Now who is this picture

Is it you?

No for you have changed moved on, grown old

The picture remains forever young

And in the eye of the beholder

Becomes whatever he or she believes you to be

But not the real you

Just the picture of you

That superficial brush stroke 

The work of light play

Shadow and contrast

The movement of your flesh

Some ideas

That attach us to our own flesh

So what becomes of your picture?

It is consumed and absorbed by the viewer

It becomes a body given flesh

By the eating

The cannibalizing

We have become the cannibals now

Having gorged on instagram, we are walking albums

If not in our heads, in our eyes

In our nervous systems

Changed irrevocably by the humanity of flesh

Where is the democracy of flesh

No it is a thing without choice

Feasting on the ever present, omnipotent, inexhaustible

Stream

So turn it off,

In a flash you can dream

Whale killer

 The crime of cetacean murder

Whether by whale or dolphin

Can be summarized in one way only - guilty

Or more informally:

- You did that on porpoise