Frigate

Fashion currency.

Into ammunition.

Kill what you can.

There is theft and loss.

Let your safety and profit produce.

Nothing.

Let it clear the way.

From eye to horizon.

Waste those who stand.

They ruin the lines.

And they are.

It is.

It is commonplace.

This clinical tactic.

To kill what you can.

And this fakery is enough.

In which to hide.

Fort

Extraneous mechanisms.

Utterly unsimple.

Things of matter, of complexity.

At our best, we doubt and hope.

And never know.

At times, the worst.

Desiring straightness.

Flatness.

Traced lines.

Limit and border.

Hurt, rage, despair

I have no solutions.
But what a beautiful day.

Campaign

The rain.
And the promise of real meaning.
Today.
Makes me weep.

Converge

My records are blank.
But I recognise that the danger has passed.
A stretched moment.
An unexpected pause.
Allows that thing which carries me along.
To stop.
Rage flips and turns.
Sleeping on it's side it finds the cold.
Irritating a tiring injury on my left.
Erupting from me,
a little inconvenience,
and just a little pain.

Conan

If I could I would.
Rewrite this text.
Cowards edit the world.
With only words.
Men of action know enough.
Know better.
Know how words fail.
Know the clarity of silence.
That negotiation is a lie.

Do not mistake excess for richness

This mornings persistent fantasy. An end to all things. A chance to sit on a hill and watch the Earth reorder itself. Free of us, free from me.

I want carnage

Cold stone.
Early morning sunshine.
Crow chatter.
Hill top perspective.
Visible wasteland.

Hat

On the bus. Smells like shit. I can't be sure it's not me.

Whatever

To smile at someone, to feel warmth again for someone. To see something other than confusion, triviality and waste. These are my emotional goals.