Paradox

If I die
Does that fly,
(Industrious in my boardroom-soul),
Die too?

The answer lies in morning truths;
I have seen too much death
To live without the absolutes
Of moths and fly-wing truths.
Await ahead, the multiplicity of universes
Wait renewed,
For the fly lives on without me,
But that singularity buzzing
In my mind’s
Unhealthy eye
Is discontinued,
And so the two states
Unfold together,
Uncomfortable together,
Yet necessary ever since
The primordial glue,
Made endless as Pi
When considering as I
Pulled the duvets of truth
Over my view
Of all the possibilities
Latent, residual,
In me, and in you.

Superinjunctions

One day all the press,
Online and print,
Will be formed completely
With advertisements,
One hundred percent
Fillings, from habidashery
To gasoline proponents,
To hide and collude
And ride and dismiss
The dissenting
Foaming waves
As they rise and crash,
While starved waters
Of truth inundate
Studios, penthouse flats,
And meeting rooms.
If that’s not already
The case, then I’m a
Pregnant seahorse adrift,
Or a starfish colonising
Panamanian dunes
And Honduran rifts,
Just like that
Spate a decade ago,
When some matter
Or other took place,
A tort-law judge
Deigned beneath his silks
That we too were beneath
His bar of knowing
What does and doesn’t exist.

So I superinjunctioned myself
And no one could know,
Neither families nor friends,
The life I deprived
Of myself, unpublished,
To the public unknown,
A red headline splashing
Other content to fool
The populous into confirming
Their pre-suppositions,
While the actual event
Slipped by unopposed.