frack art

On Hydraulic Fracturing.


I speak to the elite who rule the world, those who have their paws around the jugular, those who have amassed the illegal fortunes that pay the pipers.

I speak to you who would force yourself upon the earth, injecting your poisons deep into the veins of the vast Being who suckled you, shattering her bones.

The drudges who man the drills are merely the foot-soldiers, the ignorant slaves bought by your investment companies who would seek to squeeze the last drops of nectar from the skin of the earth. Without investment, those drills would crumble and fall. The deep veins could not be stripped without your support.

You are the ones who must halt. You hold the earth in the grizzled palms of your hands.

You are old now, breathing your gasping last, not long for this world. Your heyday has come and almost gone. You do not see wonder through rheumy eyes. Not for much longer will sea breezes caress your skins, for you will be tossed into the Pit. Your time is short and in a frenzy you seek to thrash all round you. You strike out in ignorance and hate.

By your actions you reveal your perverted souls, your obsolescence, your final severance from Truth.

These crimes will follow you, however, and track your numinous Spirits for aeons to come. You will be hunted down. You will, in some dark hour to come, have to account for your selves and discharge your depravity in the relentless judgement of the Void. You will find yourself naked and cowed, and answerable to the fearsome Angels who will encircle you with canes. There will be no mercy for souls such as yours for your travesty upon the marrow of your Mother.

Cease  now while you may. Take great care before you advance another step. Know that this is your brief and final hour of reckoning.

I see you lolling akimbo on your yachts, in the degradation of your final years, spent sensorially, sated by the world, jaded from too much indulgence and blind to beauty.

There you are, sad sack, passing out cigars in private clubs, dining on squid ink risottos and rare meats. There you are deadened from crusted years of excess, deaf to the call of birds, the winds clicking through the Aspen, the ripple of clear water through stones.

To you who invest your hoarded treasures in the final grim assault upon the progenitor, you decadent Smaugs, look into the prunes that once were your hearts. Summon your courage.

I command you to hear the muted song that whispers in quiet moments, the plea from the earth to abstain from a final blow upon the bones of the One who nourished you.

I ask you to recall your innocence, now lost, now sold into the thraldom of decadence. I ask you to remember your shrivelled purity and desist from your rapine.

I call upon you to foresake the plunge into Battle. To muster nobility. Do not invoke the final days. Play no part in an untimely dissolution.

Do not visit the sins of your lost souls upon your kin.



Generally just Being. Nothing in particular, no claims to fame. I like gardening and the sea, nature, art in all forms from poetry to films and everything in between, and being in the company of my family.

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