The Fractals of the Cathkin Braes
Tragically persistent, the
work of beauty
flawed on purpose,
like these city views, subscribing
to bastardisations, space and time in a devious mind.
Neither victim nor perpetrator, where dark is sweet
and light grows bitter there is nothing else
that needs reversed, before the iron ravens
and the sparrows of steel, my vision of ice
does not turn to heat, the traffic moves
unperturbed by distance, the commuters forget
what they’ve learned of death, be a moon in water
or a sea on fire, and the metal faces of leviathans
become like milk, rippling, curdling, towards their margins.
The machines shall thrive, alive in their deadness
The dead only speak to the dead, this is why we envy them.
Sometimes there are no other shapes but circles
And when within them we recall who we are. Glasgow a book
with torn out pages fluttering in purgatorial wind,
its half-words and letters floating, onto sycophantic laps, dancing
before a flotilla of eyes unable
to transmit or receive, but are self-containing
to the point of implosion, craving
And the fractals of the Cathkin Braes
seek to signal their own narcoleptic shadows, sheets where ghosts
have no other option but to choose to remain there
No word once written erased completely,
this is the law no human hand could enforce. Linger the architectural
transcriptions of a universe whose planets
only appear to collide
but in fact move through each other
like water moves through water.
Artifice concedes to artifice as flesh concedes to flesh.
The electric becomes the electric.
Derek Brown was born and raised in Glasgow.
He has been published in various New Voices Press anthologies.
He believes any form of completeness is ultimately deceptive.