Scarlet Rouge

Blog: The Broken Circle

There is a new blog online called “The Broken Circle”, consisting partially of former members of The Essex Writers Circle:

http://broken-circle.com/blog/corona-and-pandoras-box-starting-a-blog-when-history-begins

In the link is one of the first articles there.

What does the “Broken Circle” mean?

From the blog:

A circle is immanence. Encirclement means prison. A circle is a descent into the maelstrom that – heavy like gravity – pulls us down into the abyss of the given. A Broken Circle, instead, is a circle with a gap. It cracks isolation. It leaves open a door to leave the game, to quit, to look for something other. For others. To be broken is the remnant not of breaking bad but of breaking out. Of breaking free? Far from escapism, brokenness escapes the eternal return of circulation. The Broken Circle is about getting together – beyond going round in circles.

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On the cusp. [Glitzy (Glitchy) Paradise Part 3]

Some stories need to be told.
I’m not saying this has to be an ode…but you need to recognise the path we are on.

We were miles away, deep in to something bleak and unforsaken.

Such strides have been made, objectives surpassed, promises fulfilled.
We must be close now, surely?

I have nothing beautiful to offer.
But, my honesty and truth? It will have to suffice.

When we get there, if we get there
You’ll understand how worthy this will be.

I’ve made too many sacrifices in the name of my own delusions.

But the world we’re approaching, it will give us our honour, integrity and purpose.

We can reclaim what is owed to us only if we have the courage to seize it.

For opportune moments are only grasped by the righteous.

But wait, hah! I’m getting ahead of myself. Woe betide, we will self-destruct if we follow these traits.

We have belittled ourselves for too long. Believed in a transformation that arises only out of luck and leisure.

But this path that we stride on, relies not on hopeless devotion or desperate pleas.

For when we arrive on that evergreen hill and the gateway beckons us in, we will be released from this world of resentment and recklessness.

From a world that prizes it’s destruction as something pure and organic.

“Here he goes again”, they say, “chasing falsehoods and foolish dreams”.

But I did not squirm my way through the Lancastrian workhouses to tell you this. Nor did I swim through the murky Celtic seas to face your scorn.

For when my journey is finished, we may not have our truth.

An alternative will be offered, with a chance to return to our youth.

We’ve all seen our reflection, but none of us know what we look like.

Could we right our wrongs and restart our failed chapters?

Or will my path end like all the others, in a dark but final rapture.

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Journey to the Infinite.

Frosted confusion.

A promise of a revolution.

My pursuit begins in this forest.

My enchanted path resides with those who are purist.

 

The depth of these nights.

Full of austere patience.

Resenting the spirit.

Retaining the hope.

Withholding the haste.

 

They Say Rome was not built in a day.

But that portal is….is beyond our creativity.

I’ve seen Architects pause and ponder.

Watched Engineers argue over such a wonder.

And the Physicists? Well this is their realm, but of an entirely different matter.

 

This century of progress has sewn the seeds of distrust.

Evicting , so we can build.

Killing, so we can expand.

Polluting, so we can shine.

Starved, so we can grow.

 

But heck, Dickens cant save our destiny.

Our prophecy resides in a world that can’t flinch from its broken glory.

The Portal shows that our failure is preordained.

But I must seek a way to fight our fate; to thrust ourselves from this puddle of doom.

 

We will not survive a world of bitter republics and shattered nations.

Where skeletal chrome towers are worshipped instead of congregations.

When, sovereignty means ‘Mine’!

And the collective doesn’t shine.

Nobody can sit here and tell me that this future is God’s design.

 

This portal offers grand omniscience.

Chronicling our mortality.

Revealing our third eye.

And with this blessed vision,

we can foresee our dark inhibitions.

 

So with this rusty Claymore and my leather satchel,

I will crush that window of modernity, that promises a world of peril.

 

The circus floats from Dublin to London,

Like a snowflake swimming amongst the air.

Searching for its white froth.

But eventually, all must melt.

Its intricate beauty shall not be allowed to disturb the minds of good men.

Its rotten purveyor will be seized, exposed and caged.

 

Our future?

Pivotal.

My Purpose?

Absolute.

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Glitzy (Glitchy) Paradise. Part 1.

The transcendence of love.

It’s evasion of our bodily constraints.

It resides in depths both dark and murky, pleasant and bright.

How far would one travel to feel it, see it or simply understand it?

The seer had foreseen my moment in the distant future.

“The chance for a John Doe to find his other crescent heart!”

His tone was riddled with that crusty croak of a man who always had the last laugh.

But there was a comic truth to his pitch.

A sarcastic sound lingers, seasoned with the age of an oracle that has seen too much.

But his voice touches you, invites you in with a defiant sincerity that could promise you the universe.

 

“Step Right Up, Step Riiight Up!”

Venture forth into mankind’s eternal portal!

Your grand destiny awaits but beware of the deep abyss.

Your future of pleasure and modernity exists, a destiny so bright..you’ll forget to reminisce!”

Imagine a world where the English yoke does not swing from your charred necks”

A world where you are known not as the Fenian monkey but as the Chrome jungle king who issues cheques!

 

His tongue seem chiselled with such enchanting sounds.

A bystander’s momentary lapse was his easiest prey.

But the secret of his cause remained hidden in darkness under a robe of such rich fabric, only he would say.

With a violent swish and flick, his mystery was upon us.

“Behold! The Portal to your wonderful desires”

 

The invasion of my psyche.

The mimicking rhyme of my words.

The seer had foreseen my future, my wish to see other worlds.

 

 

A grand and smooth mirror stood before us.

Its hard and shiny exterior glistened against the dim moonlight.

 Proud and solid it stood , but deep within its powerful reflection lay a ripple.

It was minuscule.

Almost indistinct.

But it existed.

To be ignorant of this feature was to play the royal jester in front of his bloody majesty.

For only God could have created just majestic beauty within these frames.

Casting a blind eye to this fine specimen is to reject the Lords work.

I will not be privy that.

 

We approached the Portal with a dark but eager curiosity.

The pitter patter of our footsteps crunched against the white slushy grass.

Like a distorted heaven, the murky and foamy snow acted as clouds to the gates of greatness.

I stretched out a hand just to skim over the reflective surface.. The seer snapped, ” it’ll be 9 shillings if you want to escape this circus!”

Was a week’s wages of toiling in the factory worth leap in to the unknown?

 

Logic might have prevailed, but I felt compelled to believe.

 The crowd eagerly awaited my decision.

I handed him a plentiful sack of coins.

A grin beamed upon his face with a dastardly cheek, that should have made me check the amount twice.

 

I anticipated two sets of corrosive and rotten teeth.

But instead, they gleamed with a lunar whiteness unseen in this land.

It was as if if they were sculptured and polished by a Venetian artist himself.

He uttered the words, “Do not fear the awe that radiates from that world”

I reached further once more, my fingers were mere inches from the land of St elsewhere.

 

 

 

Euphoria swept my mind as my fingertips scratched its surface.

A blanket of blur blocked my eyes, but the sounds were ever so crisp.

Sharps clanks filled the air, as if huge metallic elephants were all at battle.

A great murmur lurked behind those deafening sounds.

An assortment of voices simmered across this new horizon.

Their dialects echoed viciously throughout my body.

 A mass of tall silhouettes dashed back and forth.

 The focus was restored to my vision, but only to witness their faces consumed by constant distractions.

 Their eyes darted at every angle like children spinning a model globe on its axis.

 

 

 

The fibres of my soul were transported to realm of a different dimension.

 I felt overcome by a fleeting sense of loss and discovery, the circus had vanished but a new horizo had emerged.

 A thick smog descended from the heavens.

Its stench was reminiscent of the biblical plagues and biological wastelands I read about during Sunday mass.

 But a fiery hail did not descend upon the skulls of these humanoid drones.

 For they prospered under the protection of Gothic machines that seemed to scrape the clouds.

 

 

 

As I peered through one of its windows a familiar figure emerged.

 I choked on my saliva as my legs stumbled in astonishment.

 “A Doppelganger!?”

 His (my) glare struck me with an unrecognisable awe.

The hair on my back shivered uncontrollably.

I clutched on to an onlooker, desperately seeking solace.

As I pleadingly questioned him to reveal that familiar figure’s identity,

a transfixed grin was stretched across his face whilst his hazel eyes began to quiver and tremble mechanically.

 

 

 

“Why good fellow, he is the new Mayor for the glorious People’s Republic of London!

 He may be a grandson to that IRA fool but its a true rags to riches story, they even say he was born in a dungeon!

 The Onlooker began to depart from the scene, but he took one final glance at me.

 “Ha! You do have a likeness to that crazy old Dublin man,

 I wonder if the Mayor thinks the same, you could pass for his clansman!”

 

 

 

I began to sprint for the window.

My legs had been energised with a resounding purpose.

He was the crescent moon that I would soon give birth to.

My future. His past. Both hanged delicately in the precious but fleeting moment.

 I began to witness the environment crumbling away.

 

The enormous Gothic machines began to fade in to obscurity.

The grim silhouettes seem to crack and fizzle out in to the atmosphere. 

The misty glass of the window seemed to merge in with the Mirror that I had once entered.

 My legs lost their faith as the circus suddenly reappeared.

That world had vanished into oblivion. But my purpose remained.

 

The crowd had dispersed, the only sound that could be heard was my awe-stricken panting.

The seer stared at me with an arrogant and spellbinding smile.

He knew my fate.

“I have to go back”.

 

 

 

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Cistus in Flames.

Prologue:

This world is not our own.

Centuries of roots have been laid down but still nothing has grown.

Dynasties, communities and families.

All built on a notion of unity.

Yet we still struggle alone.

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It has begun.

The mobilisation of our dark spirit.

Many cautionary tales, many warnings.

We refused to acknowledge it.

We planted a grand dream.

 

Its buds were conceived in glistening haste.

Its thick, rocky and chunky roots squirmed and squelched through an infertile soil.

It was as if this earthly paste denied us the blossom of greatness.

 

We were never really ready, our speakers preoccupied with the sounds of social gratification.

Our worm-like fingers grasping hopelessly to respond to every notification.

 

The instruments of our minds are constantly suffering from trivial withdrawal.

But a feast of freedom lies within our reach!

If we could just block the frenzy..

maybe we could find the answer we seek.

 

The subconscious craving for something precious. Peaceful. Precise.

The yearning for this purity; only stemmed by our fear of the puritanical.

These fleeting sensations of hedonism need not be a sign of vice.

For our pursuit of pleasure is honourable. It is natural.

 

Under what pretense will our social achievements be framed and frosted in glory?

The fossilisation of our nobler efforts have been blissfully ignored.

Our collective actions radiate like the dying embers of a broken sun that can no longer protect its children.

 

The refurnishing of our soul requires a plentiful mental harvest,

but should we resupply and reproduce for a world that doesn’t try its hardest?

 

How can we be guardians of a home that seethes and hisses of our very presence ?

Will it end with the jaws of the earth swallowing our existence whole?

Allowing it to breath smoothly and freely, but alone.

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