Your Stuff Poem by jim hogg

And as the crumbling
of coherence grew
a scraichin' raged about us;
too like for all the end
of fragile sense or worse.
Too like the moments when
old barbarism charges in
and shatters all connection.
Like fingers beating out
arrhythmic dislocation
against the endless void
the endless void we're aching for;
thanks to you.

Void enough it's hoped
to make of deafness music
to make of blindness bliss
and of your honeyed invitation
only desperate refusal.

But all these broken echoes
splinter into endless space
inside us and around us all
as here confined we grieve,
all vainly voicing prayers for
the mother of all shields,
to save us from,
oh save us from
your battering tide of rubbish.

2008