Bang – The End

Trying to inflate the whimper I surrender to the punch. Scattering burnt words on diamond paper the cheetah is unable to dominate the ash. He leaps and splits the rock of truth. The wind shifts and extends his time to purify colours.

On Land

Crossword in amber. Random lights. Shadow box. Roll right stones. Pixillated sham figurines bang on hung mirror. Squares, words, scatter to deadwood. Primitive tinderbox sparking electric. Closing my bandaged eyes I fear being seen under a triple moon. Hunters awake, grip clouds of chase. Purple sky closing. First toe-step of night urges heels to wander. Float on bones of chance. Charred flesh eats the visuals. Contorted arched rabid snake kissing the innocent – dreaming of constrictor ambition.

Blood held as prisoner.

Out of grim shadow, the reach of machines. Perception bends the door of realisation that Huxley perceived – the clothes of a wire prism. borderline creep in grey flesh whispers to the rust. Low murmur – smart explosive eureka. Heart shaped box leaning to question imperatives.

Hauled into dunes, the anarchy of sand. Sun pours on the lizard parched and patient in blurred circles of light. Centre stage the hot frame of existence.

Deserts move seas remain.

Unblushed and tender, removing the circus of sour skin, the umbilical cauliflower suspends from the grapefruit. Everything dies that grows. Greengrocer astonished to find punters grasping at death round the bend. What yoghourt is found in the spider's corner? Eight-legged cultural creation down the highway from milk.

White blood set free.

Fair isle twisted through disfigurement's nets. Dune ridge riot gathers for demo – aerial view of a protest landscape. A fire zone tilted, blackened and punched. Corners of sharp pages blue from the melancholy spider. Open wounds giving the land back its blood. Make every word count.

Out of the carnage the face of an infant.

Ugliness farmed in the throttle of longing. Masks of green torment smiling like crazy. Cracked and created from seas dried and golden. Sea needs rain. Grass needs sun. Rain needs grass. Completion.

Desert deserted refusing to move.

Boomtown – Back to Front

There's a power out in the heart of man. Scratching for grass in the sand of loss. Sleeping is giving in. Unhooked from the spread of night and the silver shadow on my wall, I claw the sun from yellow graves and squeeze sparks from gun-dead electricity. Ambition eats the bed. Sweat in bullet.