It was as if I had crashed out

waking to find nothing had changed.

Do they not weary? 

this circumambulation of faces

smeared across the bowl of the screen:

a cavalcade of the grotesque

stirred into a broth

to serve faithful and faithless alike.

Follow me to the cliff edge

and we'll dance with the rocks

in the chalk white of the evening suds:

a blessed libation, for to cleanse

the dismal soul of England.

We fall. And we fly. And we fall again.

Jump cut sunday slopers filing

back in through the out door.

It's all back and no stop, wail voices off

as the forgotten folk in their pea green boat

drift out of sight and out of mind

pips on the hour that bring us to heel

keep the horizon out there

where the mist starts to trace

a reverie of home

spun into dust.

Let us all join hands as we gather on the sands

to chant down the terrible curse of the gif

and should the video break free

we'll fast forward to see

the broken carriage of our becoming.

February 2019

Inland Empire (David Lynch, 2007)