Was it the last battle? I live of course due to your good grace but it was always an idle fancy and pretty much a fools disgrace and I am shorn and cut then you put your head over the shell hole and say ‘Yes, Shorn and cut’. What else would you say, about the world today, if you were here? A cold razor act, a simple fact.

The last fear in me flies away like a Coal black Crow, away to a place neither of us will ever know. You see? You are just a Clown like me. Puppet lovers and I am shorn and cut

We look at the fallen leaves now for Autumn is coming and a great change. The fires we had are embers and the cold storms just a passing breeze but we can still think just about, of the things we did. The subtle things. The night that was loud and we stood very proud and the medals they gave out were shined and brilliant. Cast out Demons and let them writhe on the cold floors. Let the branches grinch, let the light straps pinch. let the breathe we had just trickle out. Let everything turn and upsides are always downsides if the narrative is crooked. Fucking hell is there no end? No release. The oxygen again is low. The breathe laboured, my fingers deep in you. Your hand holding a trickling soft vomit.

Shrapnel Songs

Cold hands on very warm skin and I pluck my eyes out and offer them to you because I am lost for a moment and I think my hands have been tied. But your warm hands on my cold skin strip the flesh from bone, ripped and torn, never born. Make the last cut because my hands are tied I think. I cannot move them but I can feel your flesh move across them and I think your liquids are flowed. Or it is the blood from my eyes. I can’t tell. Would you tell me? But I think you are not really you and just a phantasm of sorts. The war is going very well thank you. I feel the rifle at my side and the small pieces of shrapnel fly past me gently tugging at the cloth of my combat jacket. I hope one hits me in the forehead and I poke my head above the trench. They warn me but I just laugh because someone is blowing a whistle and they have a dry mouth and it just farts commands. It’s good. A piece of metal slices through my stomach and blows some of my intestines across my shoulder. It’s a meat cloak, I dance because the pain is nothing but my blood pressure has gone and the oxygen to my brain is slowed. I am a retard. A fool without air. Blood is everywhere. You laugh again and so do I as you pull me towards the edge and throw me onto the corpses that litter the bottom of the shell hole.

Miss Abyss

The Abyss sucked me in and the sin of the forests put soft arms around me and I lay down and pressed my face into the soft ground. I was sucked in and twisted the archetypes in my hands as the wind blew and sucked. I smiled and you grinned. There was a subtle difference. Abyss-Abyss-Abyss placated me and it loved me. It loved me right in and the Forest hid me. Loved me, and hated me a little. We failed because the foundation was sin. I was loved in it. Dark soils piled on top of me, the flesh of the woodlands. The dark chittering of bark against twig and above the blackness yawned and took me. I laughed of course, and you grinned. There was a difference.

System Devoid of Anything

Annihilation and procrastination rhythms breed simple systems borne of ignorance

Annihilation systems love to hate, always give one thousand reasons why they are late. We tear down sacred walls and succour the reasons why we fall forgetting the fear of being born and lie awake. Torn.

The Grass had turned to dust underfoot and we laughed at the way the wind took the dried soils and threw them into swirls, small storms at knee height lifting grass and insects a little into the sky before dropping them back confused. Flotsam of the heat.