No More Mister Gneiss Guy

Geologists say ‘by your leave’, we’re famously polite: we wear our heart upon our sleeve, rejoice at rhyolite. We’re very patient people, but I tolerated stuff before that I’m not taking any more: up with this I will not put. Don’t bring to me your xenolith, preposterous, fantastic: I’m done with make-believe and myth: my ire is pyroclastic. Don’t tell me pressure makes a gem, discomfort forges what’s sublime: the aimless drip of frameless time creates a speleothem. Some things improve with age, it’s true, while others just feel dated: to sleight of hand, to me and you, I’m simply indurated. I’m wise to every move you make – I’m distanced from your wiles, meanders, stratagems and smiles - a placid oxbow lake.