Imposter! Usurper!

Tear off his crown!

Unthrone him!

Trample his silks and ermines

Bedaub his rainments with mud!

Pull Down his Insignia.

Smash his monuments!

Topple his statues! Occupy his palaces!

Scupper all ornament and finery.

Uproot his gardens and set fire to his orchards.

Reverse his victories. Unpick his skirt of territories

Make his a name to coax laughter from children,

A name to excite derision and hooting scorn.

Have history condemn him and

deinigrate his every achievement

Cast doubt on his assertions.

Blaspheme against his gods,

and persecute his followers…

The demands made of us are too great

the load is too heavy.

It is inhuman.

I am very tired.

These shackles are too tight

these chains too heavy.

Who is he to strike such poses?

To stand in such triumphal pomp?

To waft the sceptre so airily

and issue such cruel decree?

To ignore our every plaint and petition

to be so indiffernt to our suffering?

Specimens under glass.

What right has he? What right?

By whom was it bestowed?

Dismantle his castles!

Bring low his works!

Tear down his Towers!

For did we not raise them?

Was it not our sweat and sinew

under duress,

under whip and threat,

which raised the stone so high?

Our curses and grunting,

We who built these momunents

to our own coercion.

the usurpation of our volition-

the commandeering of our energies.

Jewels enchant the light

Precious metals

He was not there

Scrabbling in the dirt,

stooped in the mines,

We uprooted them,

cut and polished them,

meekly surrendered them.

We who sacrified ourselves in war

Immolated ourselves in labours,

of no benefit to ourselves or our families

watched our lives slip by,

in service to another.

Catering to his whims, servicing

his greed.

Buying back the things we build

…and our lives slip by in labours

and the days lose their meaning

and time

is suspended, or contracted

into a tiny,

orderly

loop.

In which the same things are repeated,

In the same order,

Indefinitely.

And time keeps contracting

only it moves so much faster

the outlines are blurring

and the same shapes

recurring

the patterns are repeating

the stories unchanging

around and around

till it feels as if we were

static

and that time

is twirling

around us

spinning swifter and swifter

till larger patterns

are discerned

from the blur

of the smaller.

UNLEARN HIS LANGUAGE

UNWEAVE HIS SPELLS

RESTORE TIME TO ITS FORMER DIMENSISONS

Breath which births speech,

living and protean,

patterned as air currents

as sand rippled by tide surges

or stone, harried by wave and wind.

Patterned as sea

as sky and star

patterned as outreach of branches

efflorescence of leaf and flower.

Patterned

as the flight paths of insects

and swallows

in pursuit of insects.

As swift and elastic as those…

And there are many things perpetually changing

and many other things which do not change.

Stories are unchanging, and the characters unchanging also.

Roles inhabited

by each

succeeding

generation.

And the characters interact in the same fashion

and according to the same ineluctable logic.

And yes, there is, from time to time, some local uprising

but these are of brief duration and have no lasting consequences,

no meaningful ramifications.

Scripts are rewritten. Roles reassigned

and normal service resumed.

The momentum is lost.

The energy spent.

History reverts to its former contours.

Waterfalls are a senseless prattle

and birdsong loses its harmony.

The air is clogged with dust

so that breathing is hampered

and it is unwise to drink the water.

There is noise always

abrasive, formless, shrill

and images crowd the vision.

There is no silence

and no stillness.

The mind is caught in mirror-worlds

and dreams of another's devising

Thought polluted as air and desire

perverted from its true course

re-routed

as by a system of dams, resoviours and canals.

The mind is led to labyrinths

and moves without progressing

Mirages flicker in the coridoors

and energy is disippated

in their pursuance.

What species of magic is this

which holds us so firmly in its thrall?

A conjurors trick no more, the diversion of attention

conceals the sleight of hand.

A swindle, performed by a swindler.

Our labours are unceasing

No harvest is gathered

No period of repose enjoyed

No period of consolidtion.

No Endings and no New Beginnings.

Some furtive communications still

soft crooning in the night

elegies for vanished stars.

Coded messages of comradship and fraternity

They Burn Still!

But their light is hidden by other lights

far weaker but infinitely closer.

Death to the King! Death to his cronies!

Death to his gods! Death to their priests!

Here we can operate Outside of Time.

Communicating across it and through it

Here we can trace conspiracies

and forge counter-conspiracies of our own

Plots to assasinate kings and unseat potentates

redraw maps and reassign values.

There are power struggles here also,

struggles for meaning and significance.

Struggles to preserve and struggles to eradicate.

Fires to keep burning and fires to douse.

Swallows chase tiny flies into evening

and clouds settle.

//////////////////////-----------

in tumbling forest and sharp ravine

the crooked river runs

past castle crags and ruined rock

through fine-ground river sand.