Work Ethic

I love hard work.  Working hard.  The idea of working so hard.  Working hard, sweat on hair dangling from face as bend and lift or dig into or shift, or brain cells worn down from think.  Unshakeable from task, hand on shoulder but unshakeable, cannot be shaken out of.  Hard work.  Dedication to task.  Not stopping.  Never stopping.  I love the idea of growing as a person.  Personal growth, working hard, growing.  Producing, or becoming.  The idea, the idea of such hard work.  Is so.  Tangible.  Almost.  I lie prone, thinking how great hard work is, how good is personal growth.  Prone, as if finally stopped from hard work, exhausted.  Thinking about hard work, how admirable, working hard.  Yes.  Great.

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* Sometimes when you ask Google a question, it is keen to tell you about the related questions other people have asked.  I have a fascination with the way the questions drift from your initial enquiry as they pop in to existence one-by-one forever, suggesting you can never know everything.  You probably can’t ever know everything, but the tumble of these questions makes for a very pleasing found poetry thing.

On The Shattering Of Eggs

On the defrosting of several chicken thighs,
chicken fillets, legs, bone-in chicken breasts
there was much chicken juice and then
we came to reconstruct the eggs so that
the insides of the eggs were on the outsides
it was like carefully dismantling volcanoes
to save the villagers from violent eruptions
and we realised at that point that we were
on ground as thin as thin-crust pizza and
that this was all soon after we had just had
the kitchen done out new.

Social Media

The policy is to scrap a lot of this housing,
to discontinue a certain kind of face. They
throw windows and doors on a scrapheap –
the houses look like toothless, noseless old men,
the children look exactly the way
the children of the future will never look.

“You must leave all your belongings behind.”

“I’m sick of talking about dreaming.”

“In times long past there was no worrying
that something unfortunate might happen.”

“No danger. Hard work and adventures.”

Double A Side: Then And Only Then / Collage Of Facts

THEN AND ONLY THEN

Big raindrops.  The rain stops and you can see now how big the sky is.  Your heart reboots like an old computer left to gather dust, but which is, it turns out, miraculously still alive, though breathing unsteadily now.  Joyous, you think words to yourself, processing.  There is always so much to do – the clock wheels away in delight.  The winter sky is big and you are getting up late, going to bed early, turning in smaller and smaller circles.  And all those three-in-the-mornings when you’re awake, you are super-determined to do your absolute best the next day.

COLLAGE OF FACTS

The sad beauty of failures,
the quiet injustices in success.
This is fantastic, this is reality.

“Just how many leaves do the trees
actually have in them?”
we wondered.
“How many times will we sweep them in to a pile?”
“What can we do with them afterwards?”

Were they legal tender
we might afford to
embrace madness,
like
the local legend
we do not know
whether to believe
or not.