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The desert is coming to England

The desert is coming to England. The daisies are pushing up dust. The henges are looming through ashes. Our sunsets are ochre and rust. And plaster Elizabeth peers from the sand, And plaster Victoria’s one outstretched hand Is silently crumbling back into the land Where the desert is coming to England.

We don’t know how long it was coming, The route that it wove through the wars. Our safety for years has been sealing Our ears and our minds and our doors. We thought we’d stay safe from the sorrows of what The wider world whispered by keeping them shut But the borders are closed and the cables are cut And the desert’s still coming to England

So sing of Britannia’s twilight, A lullaby to it’s last gleaming: Under the shadows, the satellite-fires To usher the end of her dreaming. We thought it would come with the beat of a drum, With the fire of our bows burning bright like the sun, But silently, slowly and softly it’s come: The desert is coming to England.

Have I established a pattern perhaps?

A bi-annual mental collapse?

A politician divides mankind into two classes: tools and enemies.

Friedrich Nietzsche (via friedrichnietzsche)

I love this piece, a lot. By Vasily Kafanov

I concur, it looks pretty racist, but in an innocent way, if that makes sense

Today’s advice comes from none other than Maximilien Robespierre.

Saints are sinners that learned to live with themselves.

Nancy Spero. Artemis, Goddess and Centaur, 1983.

hand-printing on paper

no more meeting people in real life no more dating apps it’s just I meet you in my dream and we sit in each other’s souls.