hachete's Journal: munge

Here comes the terminate: silent thief
shuffle-shoe slither, unstoppable enveloper.
On EVA, it appears the laser-sharp advance
of a great meridian, beach-ball for Ursa Major.
At ground zero, it's maw opens before us,
fingers thickly lifting the duvet's edge, figurines
dipped into it's baggy repose, loose-jumpered horizons.
A chuggy-pig rumba treads a finer line, my carapace
to the light, blinking to glimpse faint outlines
a bat-whispered keening for blurred data.

Sing luminous seeps of PERL, my shield at this hour!
The watch-keepers unprepossessing pre-processor
is handed over to the next and will be
as we dance slowly on monochrome grass, slipping
through Turing's mind, trying to avoid -
patterns sliding into place overhead - caught here
as \s\g of replaceable bits, swapped-out.

'^rowan\s+{[azAZ]}(.*)$'

kde_patch by

'.*birch\s+$'

on

'[Hh]awthorn.* structures$'

A purple elephant hawkmoth hovers in the dusk
slipping slowly toward the upraised trumpets,
laying down on viscous damask, each heady breath
shimmering those yellow wings, redolent waves brushing tender antennae.

Here the bright-eyed Erinaceus europaeus rumbling
under the shrubs by the fence,
seeking the rough-pawed embrace of a night-time's hunt,
the violent shake and snuffling of couplings. I wait crouched
by the shed, peering unknowing but eager into the shadows.

Thymus vulgaris forward under the honeysuckle's ombre
blows drunken mauve; the weight gaits
harder on green-eyed fingers, palms-up to give.
Desire is a smooth green spike, ever-green held
by a warped stem; shadow weight laid over
Salvia argentea, Thymus citriodorus, Petroselinum crispum.

Rowan grids tilt, intersect, a coordinate of no precise dream,
some half-awake frame, arms rising,
lace leaves curling a chirping robin
among the clumps of diffraction-thin birch trees.

Hawthorn leaves synching sullen data-structures
busy with large shiny ants feeding at the capillary
(uneasily I feel my throat: a small scar)
of a seemingly loose-typed language:
but not quite: in their free samplings
of chlorophyll, at a head hatching
deep in an alien mothership, they revert
to 8-bit integers.
Gentle notes of a bush cricket, set for the South.

Slow beats shiver moth-clung plate-glass
their dryness trembling with cellular clenching.
My sweets, dogwood, we'll yaller hollows
in the dusk, carry bats forward on a dark wave,
moths tumbling by their death's head, our winter's
shadow-fax the bottom orchard. The nightingales'
last visit, our first knowledge, crystallises slowly.

In the dog-shed, a dead butterfly stands
antennae streamed, wings folded upright,
coloured night.

Matching crows patch sulphur over a dry brook,
diffs sit unhappily beside each other on a wire fence.
As when I found myself there, hard claws gripped to the cold metal,
trying to decide which way the temperature would shift,
luminosity gradients glow or dim. As now, a cars' horn,
I cannot tell where I sit. You know what it's like
to lay a five sided carpet:
evidence pointed both directions
and feeding it through an event driven parser wasn't about to start helping.
Neither was a tree model. On which node did I lie?
Red or white? When would the garbage collector strike?
When my truth values morphed untrue?
By the ellipse's ascent, was that a fox...or a wolf?
I could see the leaves shiver silver,
a birch tree in autumn and I wished me a forest.

A metal chain attracts coulombs,
fist squeezing out cumulative reactions,
beat against the whipped part of bull-rush
blundered by a surprised heron,
a cascade of frogs in it's wake to their death.

Dawn's toxic flare wastes the eastern sky.
Stars lapse their tractor wheel, sleeps' trails
slither my eyelid. A swing of the axe
cracks the rotten hawthorn trunk.
Ripping ivy from the garage-roof angers bees,
who struggle away in a wet autumn shroud. The shredders blade
chews flesh, grate'n'grind, a fresh swig of gin.
Clearances go on everywhere,
even by the arching indents of the mock orange and buddleia
where the walk-through finished a while ago. Digging deep into the ground ivy
the hard earth yields a hole. The piled earth
smells clean, the cut of the mattock,
granp's arm with mine, binding
to the rowan's sigh.

Each morning, a cat's gift to the two-legs:
a vole, dead from a heart-attack.

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