There are nights when only writing will do.

Only tossing words from the cavernous locket of your mind into the unrippling pond lake ocean which aches before you, which disillusioned by your incapacity to tender it remains frozen and only allows your fingernails to skip along it and fall silent, the clip clip clippings congealing into an isle aisle I’ll visit again when next close friends stand far and I cast my hooks online and sinker without trace.

You are the blank canyon which repeats my catastrophes and smears them along the ancient waterway without so much as scratching my initials into the peat which erodes away on a dark horse.

The world churns my stomach turns and tomorrow harks back to the day after the day after and when the sun sets like jelly jealousy lousy fate screams bloody thunder and still still the water is be still my beaten pride.


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