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PSALM 11
I ask the morning as it lights the kitchen
To draw a long shadow on the tiles, to come gently
To anticipate the miles we have to travel
Without leaving this room, the green track over the heath
The subway daubed with graffiti, neither are stranger
Than this path, and yet we’re not the great unwashed
We’re not the noble sons of toil or a chariot
Of turbo-charged enlightenment, we are faith in the simple powers
Give me your hand, when did you last eat? Artificial pleasure
Synchronised groaning, simulated spirituality, such
Are the trials on the pilgrim’s journey, rumour
A period of change, spreads from the ports to the besieged City
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PSALM 22
Flickerings in REM sleep wake me to insomniac daze
I can’t hide from 4am misgivings, strangled cries
That might be foxes, might be invented, might be
The Last Judgement depicted in a yew tree’s branches
Visions revealed under the whitewash of the old church
Or mould on the window sill, spores, canker and gall, infestations
Of mites and thrips, midge larvae and sawfly
Presences once put down to witchcraft, now
To sub-optimal chemical and biological conditions
And soil nutrient imbalance
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PSALM 58
Neither had I rest, neither was I quiet, yet trouble came
Like a verb without an object, like two tons
Of steel and rubber gliding into its allotted slot
From which a human emerges offering manicure, pedicure
Nail extensions, like Aurora Borealis in a glass jar
And I guess in life the same people occur and reoccur
Leaders of nations or rogue traders interfering with your roof
Fake callers from Microsoft Technical Department
Yet suffer them not to gaslight or ghost you
Trust in leaf-shade and the song of the linnet
For he hath founded it upon the seas, and established it
Upon the floods, figuring any port in a storm
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PSALM 59
A memory leak hitched to the nation’s fate that slowly
Like mould or frost unnoticed grows until it covers all the world
A rich topography of re-entrant and standalone code
The day congealed and oozing fog and high-pressure systems
What was, what is and what shall be, the future an invented memory
As if the wind could formulate equations and use them against us
Moth-infested pasts cancelled and ghosted
The exigencies of supply chains and lives of the labouring poor
And miners in the forest, mercury in the rivers
Let’s find a dark bar and raise a glass to elegy and lament
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Alan Baker
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