22

     Paper words. This sinister game,anonymous scrawl that dictates the next move. Tick, tick nervously waiting as destinies are selected from out of the hat.

     Suddenly the lights go out. Obfuscation. Dim shapes as eyes adjust. And though all rules are there to be broken entrapment exists.

     Sick fear or the thrill of terror. The body count rises though no one bothers to question the motive. Such issues may be dealt with later.

     Outside the night sky is serenaded by the beating of wings. Four, five, six crows circle, settle in judgement. But it's only a game, isn't it?

<<<

25

Now all the pieces can be linked, bacteria form the stench of understanding, the cutting out. You made the right decision not to be muffled. Tick for an epitaph.

Sun shines outside the cellophane humours of the earth. Care is closed. I want to write about alcohol.

My companions adjust to Protection. Surface words scare away the body; and scare the psyche.

*

An explosion. Bone egress, dust of my familiars, perception an entire city running, scrawling puddles. The average man can be dealt with; body count's an excellent material. And I have watched these insects crawling. But so much is blue.

*

Making is detached from tolerance, crows on reinforced concrete, menial heaviness, sift from the impossible.

Writing is an imagined significance, subterranean networks navigated with indignant entertainment.

Sense roars to exit death; all faces looking, in a moment, several bits human; but not a word.