Beginnings

In the beginning there was:

*

I get inspiration from all sorts of places.

Books, movies, people, politics… It is a thing

that is never in short supply. At least, it is

rarely so. I am always scribbling, creating

generous poetry and educative prose, as well as

getting to know the people who appear

in my books. And it is good. At any rate,

I think that it is so. At times, however,

I see the rage and blaze that the world is,

and I do not know if I am right.

*

I call on you, the Muse,

to assist me in my hour of need.

Through only a little fault of my own,

I find myself in rather a sticky situation,

and need the aid of your celestial gifts.

Endow me now with a mighty, fine

pen, the power to transform words and

craft meaning out of chaos.

I shall await your response.

*

Summer is three months of Death.

During it fires gobble towns, and the sun

burns and lashes. Everything is decimated.

We must endure near-intolerable affliction.

It was in summer that I first hoisted sail, setting out

through whirlpools, tempests, and glassy waters,

that I first came out of my lethargy.

It was in summer that I unravelled

the wool over my eyes and could see.

And it was in summer that I began to teeter

over the abyss, to hurtle towards kaput.

*

I am

You are

We are… What we are.

Can we understand what is going on?

Of course not.

Can we be so bold as to ask why? Kill, kill, kill!

Should I perhaps ask again later?

By Oliver Cocks