Andrew Rimmer

Justice is the province of god's work,
Society's attempts are proven never true
In applying justice or emulating god's work.
Invoking in the mind is by nature what we do,
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The self-act of dreaming
Inspires for striving, enduring and succeeding,
Man's rest-state - night or day
The mind sets to play and replay.
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Into the eerily thin reality of Church Woods
Narrow forbidding path passing the churchyard;
Above behold sentinel headstone crosses, silhouetted black.
Silence suspends; the caw of carrion crows high in the canopy.
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Convincing someone that life is fulfilling;
Worth bothering; keeping up the fight.
To show all you are thriving, always willing;
Standing forever; in the blessed white light.
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Coming to a sad final personal ending
Still everything else left behind remaining.
It is best not to think that one dies,
That's to say; for you, life itself dies.
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Ripples tickle the mahogany canal,
As superficial as the frown lines
Crinkling the forehead of a young boy.
Radiant swans glide unperturbed,
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Shyness should be called why-ness,
The transient futility of one's now-ness
In the universe's infinite fullness.
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But yeah…of the god particle finally there's no doubt,
On a smashing magnetic flying roundabout
CERN's efforts troubling long and hard,
Gleaning this secret from such a miniscule shard.
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Diffuse sunset of pastel china blue,
Golden marbling beautifying the hue,
Feathery white diagonals of vapour trails,
Linger dying a distant as daylight pales.
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The sang-froid of a street entertainer arisen
Surpasses the traffic warden's humanitarianism

The nervous laughter of a funeral director
Pales the side splitting humour of a solicitor
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Steep steps ascending of dressed cut stone,
By man's skilled hand hewn and hone.
Worn back into true life; nature's ceaseless call,
By many a travelling man's tired footfall.
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The game lost before being born,
A done deal, ever widening into a chasm.
Living, always caught on a thorn,
Feelings of hopelessness, youthful enthusiasm,
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An inauspicious beginning for the star struck five,
As is the usual wont for a fledgling rock'n roll band,
The clichéd room above a depressing dingy dive,
Hidden in town next to the worn-out old Grand,
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The devil stirs the smoking blackened vat
Of stinking burning human animal fat.
At Mankind's terrible expense this ingredient
Sates the diabolically foul brew: the dead so obedient.
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The block is widely said to be
For the writer a cruel mockery,
A mental block impervious as cut stone
Or perhaps a blocking emotional cyclone;
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