The Peacocks are in power.

Patriotism pales to a pall
and the Peacocks are in power,
who knows what happens when the Peacocks go?
The Peacocks are in power.

Power, power, what is power?
Where does power come from?
Is power down beneath the sea?
Is power in the yellow sun?

The pilgrims travel off the earth
and yearn for power's might,
but the Peacocks arrived before them all;
the Peacocks left last night.

Power, power, what is power?
Where does power come from?
Is power in the ancient days?
Is power yet in days to come?

The Peacocks preen themselves some more,
their feathers gleaming in the sun,
and glossy patterns wriggle around
running, screaming, from the gun.

Power, power, what is power?
Where does power come from?
It's in the gun, it's in the gun,
that's where power comes from.
Peacocks scatter, Peacocks run,
Now you know where power comes from.
 

love caused global warming

Categorically I will lay my life down for the people I love.

She said that with a spirited grunt that slithered down the spines of everyone in the room.

That’s non-committal she said

No it isn’t he said

Yes

No

Maybe then

Okay

That’s how everything is ending up these days. We argue and then we make up and we achieve nothing. Really, we achieve nothing. Nothing. Do you know how painful it is to achieve nothing? There is this vast void – can you see it? – that opens up when we fight. When we kiss and make up it’s still there; you just can’t escape it. It gets all awkward and hot and stuffy and no one can tell whether this is a lover’s tiff or a permanent strike of lightning that will separate us forever. I don’t know if I want us to separate or not. Maybe it would be better if we did, because then Global warming might stop.

Did you know that Global Warming has nothing to do with pollution? Well, not the pollution you’re thinking of. Global Warming is caused by these little lover’s quarrels. To be honest, I didn’t think that a little void between two inseparables was such a bad thing. Do you think it is? Well you should. The void grows and grows and gets bigger and bigger and soon the words 'grow' and 'big' do not suffice and 'suffice' is irrelevant because nothing suffices. Nothing, nothing can penetrate that void except for the etiolating arms of the lovers themselves. So every time a pair of lovers split at the seams and then try and make up, they send threads of bright furious love, or so it’s called, across the great tear, to try and fix it. But the tear is like shredded metal and you can’t fix metal with love. So the threads have to be really really hot and really really strong. The people who don’t last are the ones whose threads are too weak to bridge the void. The people who do are the ones who, well, who do.

But see here; the people who just rip all these gashes into the material of the universe, and leave them dangling, open and raw, are the ones who set the scene for global warming. They leave their silly little attempts at threading their tear back together hanging in the void, sending out little shivers of warmth that rattle the metal fabric and excite it into some sort of temperature increase, but really give it false hope. If you heat the metal repeatedly, again and again, it loses its strength and eventually it starts to shatter. At first there is just one miniscule crack, but soon that crack sends out runners and the runners send out sprinters and the sprinters break records and every dasher comes tumbling down in a feeble collapse of the frame of one little niche of the world.

Even the lovers contribute to Global Warming. No pair of lovers is without a few tears in the fabric of their relationship: it’s in the laws of love and friendship and marriage and all of that emotional verbiage and pleonasm. They make their little tears and 'fix them real quick.' They fix their 'lil ole tears' with scalding dishes of white hot “make up” sauce. Sauce? Sauce. Gravy maybe. Possibly custard. It all depends on the couple. They fix up their little issues by drowning them in love and make up stuff. They fill the bottomless void. They FILL the BOTTOMLESS VOID. That’s not possible. That’s what you think. It isn’t really possible. It can carry on for a millennia, maybe, potentially, a scrap longer - but what happens when all that burning stuff heats up all the  molecules of the void and melts the void and everything around the void?

It will melt the tear and tear the tear and scare the tear into tearing itself into a bigger tear that will make the fabric of the universe tear up. The universe will heat up. The universe will cry. All this rubbish they teach you about Global Warming and Climate Change is verbiage. Global Warming is caused by love, divorce, love, pain, love, hurt, love, everything else. Love is just this little guy in a big world and yet he can melt the world and divide the world and tear the fabric of the world. The world is green, blue, black – love is red. When the two mix, you get BROWN. Sludge brown. 

Will I still lay down my life for the people I love? Or am I already killing them with my love?

What is so wrong with me?

What is so wrong with me

that the fire of change burns and burns

and never ceases, never turns?

What is so wrong with me

that the  stormy seas rage and rage

and never cease, never calm?

What is so wrong with me

that the wretched winds of time

cannot bestow on me a simple second of happiness? 

Is it that the fire enjoys pain?

Does it lap up tears like an angry desert?

Does it dwell in black sorrow and thrive?

Is it that the sea revels in distress?

Does it joy at the screams of broken sailors?

Does it value surrender and weakness?

Or is it that the winds have nothing else to do?

Do they adore the implausible and impossible?

Do they worship unfairness and injustice? 

Who are they: fire, sea, wind?

Nature? Nurture?

Tremulous torture?

Three spirits of havoc;

three demons of despair?

Who am I?

Why do I care?

What is so wrong with me that I cannot be

who I believed I was meant to be?

What is so wrong with me that I seem unable to see

who I believed I was meant to be?

Why? Who? What?

What is so wrong with me?

If I was a dreamer like everyone else

If I was a dreamer like everyone else, would the sun glitter as brightly? or would I be more attracted to the moon?

Do you think I'd say as much as other dreamers tend to do;
or would I keep my mouth shut tight, only smiling to kiss you,
to tell you that I loved you and that the night was black,
or that the stars were headlights and each planet a component of tarmac?

Do dreamers tell their worlds apart,
or is every dream the same,
identical in end and start
and common to the name?
Am I a dreamer like everyone else,
or is my world an apple tree -
one that grows and lives and dies in simple unity?
with what exactly I don't know,
to be sure, neither do you,
but apple trees grow rather well
when you let them do as they will do.
If I was a dreamer like everyone else,
I don't know who I'd be.
But I'm quite content if we exist
with you as you
and me as me.

Understand?

I understand.

I stand under the stars, 
watch aliens in a cartoon that are stars,
see cells in a brain that are brains -
and I understand.

But then, I stand under those same stars 
and see aliens
watch a baby grow, 
and see life
walk on the sand, 
(and realise that commas are not yet comatose)
and realise that where I stand is neither
where I stood a second ago, nor 
where I'll ever stand again.

Standing there;
a planet in a universe,
a universe of planets,
I sometimes think I understand.

But then I stand up,
or did I just stand down?
Put my hand up,
drop my hand down.
Reach for the stars,
or are they just straws?
(maybe they're imaginary alien's jaws)

I took a step, 
I took a stand,
But funny, somehow, I don't understand.

Do you understand?

The Stars

And in my dreams I visited

A vintage land of the finest art:

An empty space made majesty

By that introspect eye within mine heart.

As the fiery mural muted itself

To a haze of omniscient red,

Old Man Moon shook out his master plan

And laid it on his bed.

Black with lack of light it shone,

Brighter than day had e’er seen,

Enrobing all that stood alive

With speckles of that mystic sheen.

Blinking down, the twinkling lights

Were stars in the dark, it seemed to me.

But that night sky was deeper still,

Intricate more than e’er I’ll be.