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By Matthew W.F. Senior

If you never tell a man he needs air to breathe...

What would he do in space?

He would inhale, exhale,

And continue to survive.

There is a man who lives on the moon.

He can’t breathe, but he’s alive, as he believes.

Surrounded by callous, jagged, dense rock,

He considers his old Earth, and shifting the surf.

He misses the people, the birds, the bees.

Loathes privileged in masses,

The birds that die, the bees which vanish,

(We don’t know why).


The anger and aggression,

Tear closet-suppression,

And the people who argue, shoot the birds,

And shake the trees, to scare the bees.

The world he inhabited, we label our home.

Through bombardment of brothers,

Aborted mistakes, invented fathers;

We always feel alone.


The attention we crave leads to mobile attraction,

Stem deprivation, lack of action.

To the man, we are but his nightlight,

In a world without time, as redundant as plight.

Saying we will, though never will we,

Too busy being hive-mind, by shaking the tree,

Scaring the bees, killing the birds,

Threatening war: World War III.

Racial, feminist, plastic, liars.

Fabric facades, corruption, priers...

But the man on the moon does not know this sadness.

He’s forgotten the badness of "living" on Earth:

Unification, Rape, Murder, Murder, Murder.

Destroying the sphere, innate overthrown...

Diagnose normal as clinical, naive, on your own.

The place of The Home? Social mobility,

Warmth and love, in-built tranquillity,

The man is no longer subject to unjust hatred,

Threat of destruction, chaotic madness.

He has time to philosophise... time to kill,

He's no metric of purpose, nor a force on his will.

His surroundings of rock, steady, though harsh,

The cold he feels, the endless dark,

He appreciates, and that matters to him,

No matter what "the questionless" vocally spark.

Although, he often feels trapped... sad,

It’s okay; it’s not all bad.

And though he often feels alone,

He respects where he lives, and, unlike you,

Earned the right to call it his home.

Jealousy would cause most to seethe.

Luckily for the man,

He was never told he needs air to breathe.

This poem was written over the course of one year, and went on to become the backdrop for the short film 'william.' An honest insight into the views and opinions of Senior himself, 'Home of Cold Rock' is a very personal poem.

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