“When an inner situation is not made conscious,

     it happens outside, as fate.” – Carl Jung
 
Let me start by saying you

are unstable.

    Eight deaths

in eight days. At the home

you thought you’d send

your mum to.  Only you can’t send

mum anywhere she doesn’t

want to go, unless you have a signed

enduring guardianship, that is.

                Sign

here pls.

    Pls call

if you have questions.  Like:

is it audited,

and what happens to my capital

&c.  Well, what I started out

saying is “you look nice today

in the shadow of Eyjafjallajökull,
at 63°38′N 19°36′W.”  Dazzling

stratovolcano, your fire makes

us tack around the planet one

way, then another, from departure

lounge to airport bar & back

with toiletries & stuff

sacks—the same planet where

what you don’t make

conscious emerges later

as a fête (dunking machine,

chocolate wheel, lucky

dip, white elephant)

    as blood spilt

in a defrosting fridge.

That’s all fate is: a fridge

with blood in it

that you spilt

(& the fridge tells

not of it) so, as I sd,

to weigh a mountain, any mountain,

go to the mountain—

go about it with a plumbline;

measure between heartbeats etc,

as though we’re not actually stuck

here on the midgard kicking ash

and ice in our birthday

puffer vests from mum

saying mean things, ie:

“Like Man U you’re a bagatelle

in economic terms, and the banks

will write you off.  Me too.  #justsayin”