Paradise Lust 2

Paradise Lust: Trail Blazing (Book 2 Part 4)


Nightrealm scorns surprise of lights

out when lights are up at Hinkley Point

and cooling reactor ‘A’ nuzzles up

to rip-roarin’ reactor ‘B’ (local legends

say, lured by sirens?) with reactor

‘C’ getting legs and outpacing protesters:

I saw a wheatbelt parrot (O sacred 28)

stuffed and cased in a gallery, a stately

national trust accountancy lest we-they-all

forget, eyes as bright or dull as rapiers,

touring children elide their metaphors

and straying on weekends are encouraged

to visit to get a season pass to know thy selves,

to latch onto work sheets and blaze nature’s trail,

pick out the birdlife habilitating the Bristol

Channel’s flank (‘8 different wildlife habitats’!)

with Marbled Whites blown out to sea,

brilliant as the keyboard, the viewing screen,

memory, lifeblood, entertainment,

to power what visioning flat screen despair,

blazing fire, light as whispering wind

on a gloriously mild, sunny day (hey hey)

playing the quasis and demis of insurrection,

confounding the pure light of windfarms

with their prospective flying blades (watch out,

the nuclearists warn, they can really put a spoke

in your wheel!): repulse and exasperate,

aspirate much safer incorruptible aura

of polluted throne and ethereal mound;

so say all of us carving our way through

backroads and backtowns, roundabout

eternities of white horses and Tescoes,

to carve a path equidistant, to never go

inside say fifty miles (briefly) or a hundred

miles long-term (our half-lives being

indeterminate of mischief and inescapable

fire) of the fiery furnaces, past incapable stains

and victorious in fossil fuel expeditionary

despair. To be repulsed by Aldermaston,

weapons to meet all his mustered rage,

an age of hegemonising gravespace,

what waste we store to hedge those bets

(granite beneath the vegetation),

to make our way through ancestry

and Tracy’s family farm still bearing up

and bearing name, a few clicks from Hinkley:

assassinate eternity, perish by expansion,

to gather in the wide womb of foe and motion

and will: all tidal in the buoyancy, the keel

to find its resting place, held down in tension

to be swallowed by returning waters,

and the click click of gears changing,

quickly past, parsed in recirculating air

as if it’s a cure for pain and ideas.



John Kinsella


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