Upon observing dewdrops running along the lattices of spiderwebs, Hudson Cleveland finds a strange kind of order amongst the scattering of beings and objects in St Andrews.

 


 

Spiders’ webs lined with Scotch mist, white,
one of goD’s fun little string figures with
lattices of Death and Birth,
constellations, arachnid tarot readings…

Scores, North, Market, South,
us tapering along the silk beautifully like those
bubbles and drops, drops in a Bubble —
we aren’t midges! just bound by different Laws
Surface Tension, Gravity, Entropy.

City of Dogs (heard their significance of
ohsolongago),
sand somehow in pants,
ranges along the shore,
tidal pulls and bulletin boards
gathering interest and kindling —
bonfires of rain-soaked or brinesome nights —
cobblestone and grey rubble masonry,
vaulted once the Cathedral now
roof of Firmament, wind flossing its
crumbled windows, there are
many gods here
and ghosts of gods
and more people than gods
and more dogs (so it seems) than people!

Lecture theatres, cozy royal blue,
siege warfare and seaside spas,
buses taking people away and
bringing back people and
taking people away from Other Places to
bring them round here,
costly calliope, four years and something like
sixteen exams and escape and return,
droplet pendulumed along jump-roping spidersilk,
when will it finally detach goddammit…

Something to be said about Edinburgh,
drunken nights in Glasgow, hangovers in Stirling
under Wallace’s throbbing auspices,
— man, whoah, man, seems like far more
main streets, lattices, than just the four…
starting to lose track of things…
Tie up Sally’s sanguine hands for a moment and
recapitulate — — —
all’s well, atweel, Union’s still a-bump
at the Hour, EDM,
mebbe frenetic remix ay Auld Lang Syne, eh?

Billie Holiday and other pretensions
in a dimly lit Hall,
late nights thinking of, well,
Nothing-in-Particular
(so we’ve all said before,
tongues ready to leap into A-C-T-I-O-N),
scrolling through computer screens,
memories, sachets of tea,
books to read (read: unread, planning!),
uncoming dawn as so far North the
Sea saps the sun’s energy —
or something, don’t ask Pruitt —
a capella, dilettantes, romance,
roaming thoughts, fidgeting, spinning
in an office chair with (hell) such little
lumbar support, trembling with
caffeine, late night cheesy chips, broken teeth,
beach glass, broken bottles, undeveloped polaroids,
listicles, lists, when will they end?

Spiderweb spooled around invasive stick
like heretic candy floss for one P. Hamilton,
there’s not many a mortal altruistic to our
Altruistic Spiderlords, their homes like
little argent shrines, something unsettlingly,
I know, spiritual about them,
Not Thesean, but Ariadnic, gaping mandalas…

The brushing
of
separate Spiderwebs…
… well…
is there even
such a thing
as a triptych — — —

but, hey! I’m thinking there’s more
spiders than sticks, or at least
more spiders than people with sticks,
because I saw a couple dew-flecked webs today
but no ontological Archangel with an
unfortunate and misunderstanding arachnophobia
wielding hickory whips in whiteknuckle fist
hunting to end a Doggammed world…

 

 

 

Photo by michael podger on Unsplash