Give me a high salt diet Or I suppose I could eat Lightning only I can see (striking) To laugh freely and love those who laugh freely And laugh ironically And chew up irony until it isn’t irony anymore And yeah, I’ll swallow anyway An orgasm of Guinness and self-loathing …

Ah Heavy-lidded baby Silvan tongue from mouth, spurting Dusktime fires emboldened for Woden On those slopes wooded with sloping women Everything, all these rites at present mediated by me I’m sapped, I look sapped, please I (often) don’t need reminding X Blackened bones, mine, Dance among them — I invite, I insist (Why did I make you make me eat that) And then that liminal space Where the somnambulist expires

iii. Caveat(s) After previously rounding off by suggesting that this debate is complex, I hope you’ll excuse me, stranger that I am, for here introducing — and by no means thoroughly resolving — a whirlwind of questions and potential concerns we might have with the allegedly ‘common sense’ conclusions of…

i. Good Art Can be Bad, but Can it Come from Bad People? It’s easier to drift off to sleep, cajoled by various sweet velvet nothings, if we maintain that on the whole, we, that is, ‘we’ as collective, are steadily developing a greater awareness of (and motivations for rallying…

Seafront-bound half-hearted monks In nothing, drowned smiling Gossip God in faithless worlds Majo, jobless, pleasantries (unfurl) Pairs interoperable X A bind A pressure Weals imprinted on firmament and flesh Break bread with me Brother X And mother though I’m bathing in aquafaba I’m slurping up marrow Demanding more Sideroxylons A part exorcism But part entertaining (a door, part open to) viciousness

Toasted nuts, roasted joints, rich stews, buttered greens, starchy carbs, doughy pastries, seeded breads, winey reductions, crispy fats, smoked fish, cured meats, pucker-inducing pickles, crystal-clear consommés, syrupy puddings, peppy little herbs, silken gravies, tangy fruits, hard cheeses, soft cheeses, crisp spring vegetables, dense winter vegetables, savoury custards, fried offal, delicate…

For Pickle X Electric, surely, with Wherewithal Casting off more pestilent toils; slavering; Hoarding freshly smelted ingots Instead, happy, dusted paths enter sniffling noses And abreast Pleasant smells skip, frolic Hand in hand always with odours more coarse X Never to fetishise Skint, skinflint, the campesino Brambled scuffs and swollen…

An Off-Limits Domain I didn’t mean to leave that on such a cliffhanger, it was a strictly unintentional byproduct of the need for neatly demarcated sections (but could I have avoided it? Probably). There is I believe a prospective resolution to the issue detailed above, even if we allow that…

No Harm Done? The nadir of an irreversibly damaged climate looms ever closer as a possible future. The pressure and demand for action similarly aggregates. Whilst the path to climate redemption has barely seen its first few slabs paved, the compulsion to emit less and to act greener is no…