Battlefields from Here to Barcelona.

This was originally conceived as a compliment to a series of photos (some of which have been included) but as poems are want to do, it adapted. The basic intent to rectify a Kantian view of the sublime with a more modern, cynical outlook on religion.



Where is God?
Is he the instrument?
Or can we be drawn by human spark
To hold the dream of origin?

Sublime grandeur a settling fog
Moved by hand of God
To make moist eyes glisten
Drowned in tepid twilight.

Let the reverent lens resolve
Watch light fail to elucidate
And throw your alms upon the alter
Crucify the martyrs upside down.

Wait out the waning glare of God’s grace.
Or plunge fat hands into the embers,
Rekindle faith with blazing flesh,
Be a beacon in the dying light.

We created heaven.
On the day before the first,
Nature’s feckless fecundity
Found insufficient for salvation.



Following the footsteps of giants,
Fling great shadows skywards
For fit monument;
Elegies to our eternity.

It was the solitary heart,
A restless yearning to penetrate
The sublime primal world
When vanity was young.

Shuffle your feet
Through autumn’s ossuary,
The perdurable grind of fallen leaves
On fields from Ypre to Aushwitz.




He has grown old and bitter,
Since the empire’s decline and fall,
Shakespeare shattered for want of ink,
When the scenery started fading,

It’s the ruse of binary opposition,
The rut of mutual codependence,
The apprentice in the artisan’s workshop,
The bullet in the brainpan in a bunker in Berlin.