aaron-wallisWhisper

English

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A useless ManA man is only half of what he is; always leaning towards the dim / Lacking a flouted need which whorls in the mute within him / A man bigots an ideal and will lark it away at the hold of his routed pith

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SeedsBurly bleak plumes roll out aloft corn / Where the dragon fell post spin and ditch / A wretched hulk of ruin splintered and worn

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The Shore Line DepressionA subcutaneous doubt musters and you itch / The shore line depression is here without hitch / A sea of harps instigating an emotive atrophy

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1.6k

The STRANGERNever had any regrets since your last cigarette / Never a mistake that drink wouldn’t help you forget / You were ‘fun’ and you were ‘tough’ when the fuzz arrested you

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Flash FloodThey flurry fashion clad around him, / Bashed and bumped he is upon his knees, / Nought but an obstacle to their purpose,

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Shred EverythingHis earnings were no use now, / A bottle of antiquated Romanée Conti would undoubtedly do, / A premium Gieves & Hawkes ensemble donned,

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Without MargretA lowly wooden bench lent itself to a lonesome aged narrow man in a common garden in the smallest hour of the day’s beginning. In the thick haze of the summer’s waking light the common is thinly met with the company of others. Just an old man and his acquainted bench who came to give his eyes sight to the grass and trees, and to rid himself of thought. / He and the bench creak as he sits back; clutching at the satchel veiled among his dull drudged garb that bleeds into his pallid slack and cracked skin. / The wiry hairs bushed around his nostrils recoil to the deep inhale before the sigh, his yawning blue eyes sliding behind a milky glaze follow a bushy tailed rodent hurry into the confidence of a tree.

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The Tune We All HumIt is in our all for we are all and in a tunnel coiled / An entwining miasmic kaleidoscope we call our entirety / We are a collective phantasmagoria of escapeless toil

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