( via / me )

Weather so dreich it can stop a dalek.

"Automobile Fences

The mist remade all the motley lights
of the night cruisers in their ninety cars
to so many shattered disco stars.
Pile ups don’t happen overnight,
but they did then. The dark fog
rendering every little rider —
from fender bender to fractured soul
to mangled mother and mutilated trucker —
to a true disaster: ain’t no stars
fixed anymore. So he foolishly left
his car to seek shelter. Might have been clipped.

He jogged through the magic of apparated junkyard
dodging the still oncoming 'drivers'
until he came to the guardrail’s cold
folded steel, feeling its curves
with bloody knees. Normally folks
find themselves crushed between fencerow
and hood ornament, harrowed by grill.

He saw the fog and started to climb
but providence — or proffer the term
you use for the transcendent — yearned him other:
he waited, still. The fog withered
and on the other side of the guard opened
the maw of the abyss. He pocked his mouth,
koi out of the graveyard’s old koi pond.

A man once said, 'If you stumble on a fence
and want to move it, walk away
and think for a while. If you can wonder and tell
me why it was made, what it was for
I will consent to you sundering its trusses,
barbed wire and welded studs.'

We Americans love moving guardrails
in the fog and pileups of our freezing night."

—Lancelot Schaubert at FGR

In my sleep I dreamed this poem.

"From the standpoint of ruthless capitalist exploitation, the existence of a cliff of death is a feature." —gelfin via

"Colonization would have been impossible without entering a rapacious state of mind."