Murmur tranquillity. A figure by the window. Festooned delinquency. Every day, a widower is born. Ether pallid between dawns. Form and rejection stretched your pelt over razor limbs, interchangeable a naive future roars. Young fantasy sketched by image violence. Now that I am not I and you are not yours. Negotiated imprisonment. Kept out of mind by hung pictures upon their walls.

Impressed behind this etched glass juvenile relief of appetite… who will want me now? At an unfortunate cross road being has conspired. Edge worn, how this hydra conglomeration lies wounded. A single cranium solely admired. Sterilized by affection potency. Love acts weakness, translation becomes vacancy… “Without nails we cannot hope to build a coffin or a home”. Oscillation frenzy. We have lost control. Polarised, this restriction of practice housed by a missing collusion axis promises to take its toll.

This is the first door I’ve seen in miles. Remember memory. Not as me but as your own.

Everyday catastrophe… We who carry dice and cast droughts…In the quiet of settling… Who carries the light and who blows it out? The wardens. The unwelcome revenant doubt. A burden of vermillion shards. We are told but never know just how to hold their cards. The same way we think of stones and sand. Even when we are denied the tools we still dig into hell with our own bare hands.