Aspen Writes Poetry

It is an ancient and widely documented fact across the galaxy that bridges are fundamentally unreasonable places to host an argument. In the  The Municipal Authority’s Very Honest Pocket Dictionary of Civics  a bridge is defined as:   “A clever, engineering-based solution to getting over something damp, which is almost immediately ruined by two idiots who encounter each other in the middle.” The bridge in question was extraordinarily narrow,  spanned a chasm of terrifying proportions,  and was designed to hold exactly one medium-sized goat at a time.  It was not designed to hold two ego-driven,  aggressively opinionated mammalian heavyweights experiencing simultaneous,  acute delusions of absolute omnipotence. From the Western side of the chasm trotted the  Orange Goat . The Orange Goat had a magnificent,  sweeping tuft of golden hair that looked like it had been spun by a confused silk-moth experiencing a panic attack.  He was very...

it does not require a degree in politics to recognise a dying child stop dressing terror in diplomatic silk name the grief before the grief erases us all.

  The Guild of Builders did not,  as a rule,  admit pigs.  This was not due to speciesism, Ankh-Morpork was a progressive city where trolls ran banks and zombies were respected members of the civil service, but rather because pigs had a somewhat cavalier attitude toward load-bearing walls and building permits. Pig One (whose name was Barnaby,  though in the heavier,  noisier music venues around the Mended Drum he answered to  Swinestock ) stood back to admire his masterpiece.  It was a house made entirely of straw. It is an established fact across the universe that straw is a wonderful material for hats,  scarecrows,  and farm animals to sleep on,  but a distinctly suboptimal choice for keeping out atmospheric weather or hungry apex predators. “It’s organic, ” Barnaby grunted,  tuning his three-string bass guitar.  “It’s sustainable.  It’s got a real earthy, cosmic-folk-thrash vibe.  Plus,  I saved four hund...

euphemisms are designed for the comfort of those holding the pen not the ones under the rubble. Love and solidarity,  Aspen 

when you call a murder a  tragedy of fate you excuse the hands that built the bomb give the truth its sharpest edge speak the word they spend billions trying to hide.

A Note for Readers: In Aesop’s fable  The Sick Stag , an ailing beast lies weakened in its pasture, hoping for quiet recovery. Well-meaning and opportunistic forest animals visit to offer sympathy; yet while staying in the meadow, they graze upon every blade of grass, leaving the stag starved and destitute. It is a stark classical allegory for how external intervention, humanitarian theatre, and resource plunder often destroy those they claim to observe or assist.   The meadow bleeds into the stone. You lie beneath a sky of white-hot steel, your ribs mapped thin beneath a dusty coat, your breathing shallow as the falling night. And across the sea, the visitors arrive. They arrive with cameras and with heavy boots. They talk of  self-defence  beside the wall, then graze upon the grass beneath your head. They call your broken legs a  complex clash , they urge  restraint on both sides  through the smoke, while quietly pocketing the offshore gas, the ...