A Crest Worn Upon A Chest

we leave a number in lieu of another.

can a different numerical arrangement really bring something it's predecessor couldn't?

are we expected to believe in a new light when the one prior was still burning brightly?

i had gold in my hands, i spoke with wonder.

un-verbly it's open mouth leaves nothing of worth...
i laughed the day they told me that history would become relevant in my lifely routine.
i laughed the day they told me that.

exacting the hum-drum, i am left with no beat no drum.
the startings.
the middles.
the ends.

Fr Fr Fr

I have forgotten about language, the playfulness of it's nature.
I elongate it's vowels for my own communication. They protrude like spikey fruit upon branch of wilted tree.
To ears, other than my own, it sounds like music.
I think it's time I allowed myself to open up and to stop with the green grass philosophy which dogs my brain, like a constant, broken motorway. It's destination unrevealed until the finality of my arrival.
Open stretches of water alert fear in me, there is something beautiful but, deathly about them.
I often associate this spectre with the end of life, as if i have somehow experienced it before.
perhaps...in a previous existence, if i believed in things like that.

Red Young

Hamilton Fensby, my local gardener, handles his ware at a pace more pleasurely than leisurely.

Fawn, he repeats and peat he emits.

No more utopia blue, his gaze.
'What do you do when your designs are flawed?'
'I just let 'em talk of petering out'
...
'When the fields are gone will the cows take out mortgages?
Will the sheep get full-time jobs?
I guess we won't have to worry about closing the gates anymore.
Why?
Well, they'll be neatly replaced by a housing estate.
He caught us in his castle, hidden under-chair, we shiver, quiver and stare.
'FE-FI-FO-FUM...I smell the blood of an Englishman'

Sun-Tak

in the words of the man that sold me the gun...it's people that kill people

in the words of the man that sold me the gun...it's people that kill people

they cut themselves open like morning mail...over territory or something

would they be more civilised with hooded cardigans?

in the words of the man who took my life...what you looking at?

in the words of the man who took my life...you disrespecting?

in the words of the man who took my life...you should've done nothing

in the words of the man who took my life...i don't remember it

the blood pouring out?

The Murmurings Of Gentlemen

a dot for my childhood

alvage

romance

Den MM; # 1 - 68

blah blah blah, words are rapping around my bleating throat like an unwanted sandwich being forced down thine gullet with excruciating accuracy by the floppy hands of the elderly!

Bon Traverse

At once, we ushered ourselves past the great hall. We brought with us, in our pockets, small livestock to sneak into the harvest room.
'well, it's not just man that has hunger', our administrative leader shouts in a muted whisper, reverberant in the spacious chamber.

'what of the others?', our own brand of socialist eeeks all over the mission.
We stop, almost in contemplative unison.
The quietness that brushes over us now is the loudest thing in the room.
Our ethos has been challenged. From the back of our group I can hear the initial swirlings of our low chanted war-drum song.
Careful to not rile to soon-to-be mob, I run to the centre of the hall and play dead, mimicking the tweet algorithm of two dozen sparrows.
Knowing what'll happen to me, I lay completely still...waiting for the fragments of ember to start swirling.
The others, startled at the events that are coming begin to cause a deadly furore...circling me with speedy intensity.
Their song, low and mono-syllabic, becomes a deafening drone.
Their speed ever increasing.
Increasing still.
The doors to the great hall begin to bang and slam as though being controlled by an invisible intruder on their corridored side.
At last the embers.
The drone accentuates into a banshee scream, a 5.1 dream piece, piercing and horrid, the doors fly off their hinges, possessed.
Chairs, certain carpeted areas, even my shoes spiral upwards into the static salvage floating above my head.
At once a light fantastic, a solar vandango....

The screams quieten. A black and grey landscape remains. I semi-charred, retain my position on the travertine surface,  where I, recumbent,  never move again.
Completed in the metamorphoses, me the resultant grey matter, trunk shaped, bark as skin, am paraded before the elders.
Their songs have changed too.

I hope no-one thinks of me as missed.