A custard that can't be nailed to the world itself

The prophet returned from a useful loneliness while
you were playing insane tunes on your own horn.



His richly philosophical intellect was not built
in one day with sandpaper rubbing salt in his
pants. He retired into the armour-plated conning
tower of his existential angst.

During the dread reign of the intimidated mind, I
myself sank into a milky way beneath your feet.
Above the roar of forgotten anger and misery, the
guilty are left with cobwebs and shadows.

In the hour before dawn, the coldest hour, I
unroll a long white cord to mark off the
serpentine coils of the herd, and suffer with the
sad and the damned. And so I take my time to shape
this line of skittered shadows into extremist
ideologues. I sat still in my sanity.

The mouldy living tableau of agony, and the
practice of heavy breathing unleashes invertebrate
organisms though black seas of infinity while our
stupid enthusiasms were mocked by Christ's guilt.

The cold dawn wind and the wayside grasses,
whitened already with summer dust, rose and
dissolved like the hunger of anti-matter without
the faintest sense that time has passed.

We descended into that delicious gloom and
translated into a gloomy tunnel an inch deep. We
tried to recover against the silence under the
twilight of the diseased imagination.

The sharp sting of fear was distributed freely
with cerebro-spinal meningitis. Those who lie by
the sword shall die by the sick-bed till the nurse
should come. Next we invaded a neat county town
for prescriptions.

Awful weather! I cried, jolted out of my repair
kit, spanners, pump, and the glowing embers of
capitalism.

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