Incline

Sky is lead heavy, the hill is hard.
The killing field.
Machine thrum.

All there is is the death of summer
A heavy, lazy anxiety. Restless stirring itching biting.

Tomorrow is coming. Now is not forever.

The cat's claws.

You look like that person off the TV.
Your quest was successful.
It really suits you
To look like someone else

Valley

Tall purple flowers from tangles of weed
Rusted metal and rotten wood
Posts askew and wire bowed

Silence between bird calls
Silence waits before the wind stirs the leaves
A smell of decay

This is an empty land

How to not succeed at blogging

1: Do not put pictures on your blog
2: Don't have any discernible theme to your blog
3: Write about subjects that don't interest the majority of people
4: Update it sporadically
5: Alternate between really long pieces about nothing in particular and really short pieces about nothing in particular
6: Choose titles which rarely describe the content of the post
7: Ignore all the advice in 'How to succeed' at blogging posts.

Lose one, find one.

A lone blackbird sings.

The air is peaceful and the scent of summer pervades everything. Wind that makes no sound save for the rustle of branches heavy with leaves. Dusk on a day when the night will never properly set, the sky a deep blue calm with dawn not more than a few miles beyond the horizon.

Static. Scalpel. Jagged. Glass. Wire wrapped tight around flesh, taught, cutting, wire, flesh, pulled, slicing.

The dawn is never more than a few hours away. The night is not silent.

Cold feeling in the pit of your stomach. Cold feeling. Acid, bile, ulceration and fear. Fear you cannot name. Fear that claws and crawls like a spider up your spine and grasps you round the neck sinking it’s fangs right into the soft indentation you learnt sometime you don’t remember, from someone you don’t remember was called the nape.

Maybe you read the word in a book. A hardbook book, no dust cover, just a faded green fabric, embossed with burnished gold, full of the musty smell of illustration plates. Pen and ink and typesetting. An Edwardian child in a magical land.

The lone blackbird sings.

The abattoir.

I have found another world. One in which you can start again. Fresh. As many times as you like.

Painless.

You can see yourself as you wish to be seen. The perfect angle, the perfect light. Pose held, forever. This is you. As you want to be seen.

Who can see beneath the surface? The sculpture is polished. Solid.

Your desires are sated. You can be at one with what you are, what you want. Whatever that might mean. Whoever that might be.

This world is shelter. This world is life support. This world is bomb proof nuclear technology. This world will live on. You will live on. You never existed.

There are no demands. There is no need to speak. No need to reply. A space for everyone.

You can live through others. All the goodness of real blood but none of the vampiric baggage. No staining of your best dinner suit. No shrieks and screams. Just feeding.

The world is everywhere and nowhere. The world was empty. The world is full. The universe is ever expanding whilst the world shrinks.

Step from one place to another in an instant. It's a science fiction dream come true. From lust to innocence in a heartbeat. Elastic slingshot from pillar, to post.

You need never be alone again.

Speak what you like. Faceless words of truth. Weighed and counted or thrown down in uncalculating abandon. There is always someone to share your truth. Your truth is their truth. Their truth is your truth. No more isolation. Souls connected. It's the same sky above our heads.

Nothing is lost. Everything is found. In reach. At hand.

Fuck without feeling. Speak without talking. Love without touching. Laugh without moving a muscle in your face. Synthetic pleasure rendering reality dull. Unsatisfying, heavy, leaden, poisonous, dirty and unreliable. 

Step away, step back and repeat. This is a dance with yourself.

This is pigs to the trough. Animal feed. The food is there, so you eat.

The dusk is falling earlier
Yellow leaves speak
Of the end of dreams