hachete's Journal: Triplet

Calligraphic remains of a Roman fort:
white staccato stones sink into grass
watch over a three-valley meet.
Heft a legionaires shield,
a redjacket square and gatlings jammed
bloody bayonets fixed straight
straight contentionless narrow
as toes grip to razor wire.
May you be that square peg touted dovetailed
interlocked braces? A magnificent
18th Century Dresser of an Information Act.
With knobs on.
Slide yr toes further out
ignore temptations either side
boxed in, punchy, out-boxed
a door leading to an inner sanctum
heavy bouncers at each door ticking lists.
You could always say you knew Pandora intimately,
ask to reach in and take out a white-rabbit
or a Comet, or a rack,
or two power grids colliding -
just make sure you've got your lower torso
when you leave. Now the white-haired
old man has appeared from behind the curtain
Dorothy would like to go home, please.

Loopy Loo likes the triangle
the most unloved of the orchestra
                a single note
ting ting ting
Dangling her feet over the pyramid
she sharpens her toes.
We, like surveyors - say, Mason-Dixon,
Flanders, Burton - triangulate and
pin down the smallest error,
a way to the stars
srat eht ot yaw a
re-arranging points to make sense of circles.
On misty nights, headless horsemen canter by
an illicit couple check text messages:
slide rules automagically glide into place
quill pens scratch positions of guidance
summing up yr position in the grid.
What hiding place when hawks know everything?
Chivy the slightest cocked hat, my fine young
puritan, greater accuracy within the framework,
whips to the bar, carved from chaos.
Loopy Loo likes her frameworks handmade
self-hewn. She walks these mean streets
with 3 blind mice for guidance
and they're going to have a word
with the fine young puritan.
They have some pink triangles stapled
in their scrapbooks, three beats to the camp quartet.
As shadowed red, some Watneys, the 5th Division
moves over the start-line.
Kirk all flash and phasers set to to stun
reveals 12 beats to the brain
at the heart of Cheyenne mountain.
Spocks thoughts thump heady as mosfet gates trip, reset.
Kirk comes with
                Tough Love
        a nice cold shower
get some new rules, invent yr own. The planet
is harsh on the surface but you'll survive:
knowledge is a skinned rabbit not a bad sonnet.
To everyone's surprise, the exterior
angles add up to more than 180.
A wooden pony rocks Loopy Loo
to sleep, razors cannot cut the rope.
A sharp wind shakes her feet.

Hyperbole of bandstand rotating cornets and tenor horns, raising their throats snuggle deep into the cogs and flywheels my apple-cheeked child. But, wait, what's this, our clean-cut hero has reached the inner sanctum (to no one's surprise, he knew the matre'dee, went to school with the restauranteur, Pandora was his second love after Miss Peabody) and now carries Orak, the Mechanised Integral, son of a difference engine laid bare, the priest hood undone, codes broken, seals cracked, safes unpicked. Glimpsing into the static, Po, his heart beating fast, opens his belly to a harsh wetlands winter, shining disks of water framed by reeds. From beneath the refracting surface, brooches swirl, grey eyes point skywards. Come Dance With Me on the infinite case - point two-three arc, connect horizon, three-four and slide to vanishing - this is the loop of the long now: choices, red, pickle hard, hard against the pendulum's edge. Danegeld salt to no one. Hie to the long swing and away.