By Dominic Fox

Rising, unstilled, roughly disquieted; as by
high winds shaken, holding place barely – uproot
pending sure as *enta geweorc* makes ruin
tower infernal –

love-work not love’s labour but self-delighting
self in other, ever to self returning
strange, pellucid image at once dissolving
into the ether –

how to make of this a resilient fixture,
binding freedom given its public licence
may be taxing; still, let me here acknowledge
militant furor

uncurbed, unspent, forcing its transmutation:
world-unmaking epoch to be concluded
(spoilers!) if you credit the happy campers’
meek jubilation –

or if not, consider the default option
stark foreclosure, smog of our immolation
greasing rainfall: penance without remission
frozen in carbon.

Dominic Fox is a writer, poet and musician working in London. He has published a work of philosophy, 'Cold World: The aesthetics of dejection and the politics of militant dysphoria' (Zero Books, 2009) and a collection of poetry, 'Half Cocks' (Intercapillary Editions, 2011). He performs and records shoegazing folk-rock as "w/trem", and blackened experimental metal as "Spiral Jacobs" (an album 'Haintology' is available).