Cold shower

My friends here assembled tonight:

I propose a toast. A toast

to the thousandth life I haven't lived.

Another I couldn't possibly live

for it only exists in my mind, alas,

and will never come to pass.

I am sure each and every one of you present

has at one point dreamt of a better existence,

of a better prospect, of a better dream.

I am also sure that you have dreamt

for every or no reason at all,

just for the sake of dreaming a good dream,

even if it were just a five-minute daydream,

or to escape a sanity-shattering moment.

To be honest, a short daydream in the shower

is worth more to me than any of the dumb hours

I spend doing something I hate

or talking to people with whom I can't relate.

Today was my thousandth of these fantasies.

I won't tell you what happened but let's say

that apocalypse always had for me

more modelling power than the finest landscape.

More appeal to me had my own mindscapes

where I would lay the first stone to my empire,

defying all the laws we have here on earth.

Today made me realise

I am the Crowhurst of literature –

even if my death did serve

no other purpose

than to make me feel more alive –

accepting this as my very nature.

Nothing I wrote will ever be put in quote,

yet it's all good, all good, for once I stood

on a pulpit and received a Nobel gloat,

which made me stop knocking on wood.

Now my dear friends, whose realness

must be questioned against facts,

regard daydream as dismissing with tact

all that smarts and defines and brings,

for one can bear too much of real things.

So I am left with the one stunt to do today:

go take a shower and put the water so hot

that my skin will flake and peel and clot

and in the most painful way will pass away

ridiculously curled up at the bottom of the tub.

And good luck to the one who will have to scrub.

Last daydream of mine, but the only one

which will obey enough laws of physics,

social determinism and thermodynamics

to be able to come to be a home run.

Eventually, though beaten

and exiled and spurned,

do what you will to quieten,

reality always has the last word.

Toast!

 

Obviously not so obvious

"Evidence is the only good reason to believe anything."

Richard Dawkins, biologist and author (b. 1941)

The Coincidence Squad

We are the Coincidence Squad.

Contrary to what you may think, we do not roam aimlessly – for we have an agenda.

We find whom we seek, and act according to the plan.

We are masters of – and mastered by – serendipity.

When you suddenly realise that you are not the only one to wear that particular shade of mauve like your heart on your sleeve, you know we have been hard at work.

When you notice a recurring word, expression, oddity, we have been there to nudge you into realisation.

Whether there be epiphany or not is not up to us.

We billboard your life with unmistakeable signs,and these need to be interpreted.

We multiply the semes – in our jargon we say that we shift the occurrences of incidences to the red – for we believe that the oftener you are lead to see, the likelier you will see.

Serendipity is a spring of coincidences with an aim to open. Your eyes to see, your heart to feel, your mouth to laugh.

We officiate when your back is turned so as you do not suspect anything else at work but randomness.

We operate at night when no light can be shed on our activities, yet we are the eye-openers of the quotidian.

We know that our work breaches the very fabric of the world you live in. It allows you to see the strings and levers, the pulleys and the gears.

You may even think that the world revolves around you.

That the concatenation of events is an unbroken chain leading to you being you.

That a higher instance factualises your presence on Earth.

Consternated as you may be that it might not be so we in the Coincidence Squad work hard to making you think you can see what you believe to be the sign.

We vindicate you into your existence. We validate the connection between the dots which draw the general design.

We legitimise fights, thoughts, beliefs, actions. In more ways than one we are the engine, the fuel and the natural laws which bind and govern.

We make things happen when things can happen. Nothing has to happen, but anything can – and we are here to make sure it does.

We barge in the aporia, we storm in the hiatus – that door left ajar – we make things stand side by side and without pausing to step back to take a look at our marvels we press on, for some of you like to pay attention to the details – indeed for some, details are all that matter – and we would hate to disappoint.

After all, whether the signs be interpreted or not does not ultimately befall us, or matter to us – after all, all things are relative to one another and to the observer – for we shall continue mirroring, juxtaposing, abutting, against every single one of the odds.

For we are the Coincidence Squad.

 

A minute ago

A minute ago, everything was fine.

Right as rain, as folk would chime.

Not particularly unlucky,

not necessarily successful,

yet I was as fine as can be.

A minute ago, I was whole.

Fit as the proverbial fiddle.

Taken for granted by my family,

I was the beacon they followed,

I was still fine as can be.

A minute ago, I was myself.

My life lined up on the shelf.

I just learn that I have cancer.

I should feel like I'm in hell,

I should be looking for an answer.

But a minute ago, I was inert.

Now I'm a wrecking ball let

loose down the hill

– no engine, no purpose, no driver –

for there is neither good nor ill.

 
 

The Raid

The dogs, restless, barking

and gnawing at the ropes,

egged on by the smells of burnt flesh,

lapping at rivulets of fresh blood.

And crows, crows, crows everywhere

blackening the lowered skies

impatient for the feast

cawing at the resting men.

The blades of grass briefly bent

expectant of rain, and wind,

oblivious already, uncaring,

rising to the men arising.

Songs of fell deeds hummed

knelt down on the riverbank

the swords, cleaned and whetted,

ready for the next raid.