I pulled the black water over me into a space where my unconscious ran free. Dead lines in shrunken spaces. Sense of failure splashed on novice. Losing my flamboyant public persona I drank the margin surf. The night was like a sten-gun repeating the moon's image in bullets. Sweat in trigger it blew through the lonesome barrel – crack – railroad airhorns – pistons across travel.
Spine of bodywork – crow on the corpse.
In a new kind of saliva at the mouth of the lunar-sea a half-earring on black velvet whips waves into bedlam. Ship of matchwood down to zero. Explorers stiffen, eyes black fear. Hitting on words to anchor – warmth, love, humour, hammer, loss, woe. Spit panic at twisted crow whose mouth drips from carrion. Music drenched. The ladder fell from the ocean.
Trigger dull eye-line on the state's hymn.
There's a shift towards fiction – conversations in floating cafes. Intellectual stupidity from those too educated to demonstrate the state's debates into terrorism as terrorism – sketched via lunacy of intent. Give me cyanide and a bullet in the name of peace as it slips through lips. Learning to read is different from learning to see.