what was it that the wind said?
what was it that the wind said when it
ran itself through your hair and
pressed its face against yours;
a foreground to the watercoloured sunset?

was it the poetry whispered by
lovestruck boys and girls
who kissed, forbidden,
in the clearings of enchanted forests?

or was it the hissing of embers
setting eachother's souls alight
in an **** of crackling fire wood?

was it the ***** chiming amongst
divine silence; only broken by
the tears of joy in a stained glass cathedral,
as she walked towards you in her wedding gown?

or was it the morning rain
as you woke up to an empty bed
with the lingering scent
she left the night before?

from around the garden,
in nooks and crannies where
the snails and slugs and spiders create
homes in the muddy dark.
beneath rotting planks
of trees from storms past
and the wind that seduced them
from the foundations of roots
that twisted through the deep earth,
around the worms that burrowed
and the soil that held dear
the decomposed bodies of the ones that breathed.

the garden where I made my rounds,
where the words never came out the way
they echoed in my head.
the garden where I stopped to smell
the overgrowth and rot.
the spider webs, and flies that became
liquid from the venom of their starved captors.
I stopped to smell the blackness that the sun hid.
I stopped to live out my humanity while I lost my words.

this day, so many days past,
we loved madly in public places.
like I never loved anything,
like the way I loved you.
when we ran in the rain
under city lights and
through degenerate streets.
the secret places we kissed in
with fear and excitement.

you made me feel so much
with your warm shoulders under
my rain soaked hair.
despite the chill in the air
from our winter.
yes, it was ours.

but now you're gone
and the season lingers
with icicles freezing off the nerves
in my heart.
a winter torn in two.
it's hard to think your shoulders
have lost their warmth now.

he had three left shoes
a tin can crumpled into an ashtray
and ate half a can of beans each day,
****** ***** from the pores of perverted men,
smoked used cigarettes from ****-stained back alleys,
licked clean ***** needles,
and slept on the side of the road just to breathe
in the car fumes.

and one day he found
he was down to his last crumbs;
the muscles in his face didn't move once,
as he shrugged a translucent corpse into
the deep earth.
a grave for a man with no name,
no mother or father,
a grave for a man who simply appeared
on this earth one day,
the same way he left.
a man who lived off
nothing but starvation spread thinly over
lost dreams and vices.

we are writers, the most masochistic figures among all mankind.
we want to connect deeply with everything and everyone
we want to touch
deeply, softly, roughly. desperately, timidly;
we want our words to make love,
breathe heavily to the blissful moans coming from
the vowels and consonants fornicating with grace
and passion, but with a growling that could make an
A moan'ahhhh' or an
F whisper under his breath, '****'

words and pain and desperation, desire;
our thoughts creating a mass **** of literate *****.

& so we feel,
feel every romantic fever,
every rush of endorphins when lips touch,
body parts grip tighter, tighter,
and hearts mingle,
but only to become a paradox

& so once again we feel,
every chill of remorse
every rush of nausea when toxic lips touch,
the once poisonous distance between our bodies becoming fresh air,
and the gentle embrace of our heart and soul becoming cold shoulders.
only to become a paradox.

but we are writers.
we thrive off uncontrollable emotions,
our very essence continually searching for a muse,
a new way to morph bland reality
into a strange, disgusting, but beautiful new piece of art.

drink away the days,
drink away the laundry,
drink away the pegs that
break as you put your
lacy lingerie on the washing line for all to see

drink drink drink
until the one with their
nails dug deep into your
heart remembers
you exist

drink away the slow internet,
the bills, the speeding fines,
drink away the withdrawals
and then stop

let your brain suffer,
let your hallucinations **** the
juice from your cerebral cortex,
let the seizures take the wheel,
spasm and choke

then finally lay yourself to a
psychotic rest as the
delirium tremens
set in because

*death is just the physical manifestation of the metaphorical ghost you were in life

I found rats in my hair, ***** of yarn, thickly matted
from daytime naps and rough nights of sleep.
run your fingers through this muddy cane-field,
drenched in the swampy summer rains.

My moon-kissed skin, where each freckle is a drop of coffee
the sun spilt on me while reading the morning paper.
it stretches over my broken porcelain collarbones;
edges jagged and protruding like barbed wire.

Teeth I wore down, chewing rocks, eating sand,
and yellowed with acid and smoke.
and my lips are chapped, small, puckered into a constant
apathetic frown. Too dry to smile, that's my excuse anyway.

Irises like drops of paint dripping into thick milk,
pupils stirring them, mixing them into a foul blend of night colours.
and wrists like a battlefield, fingernails like shattered glass,
razor sharp, bleeding bad habits.

Thighs like hot chocolate, melting marshmallows dripping
down each one - drinking me down by the firelight.
and **** like tennis *****, cut in half and slipped under the skin,
two little speed bumps on my body's ribcage highway.

a body like a corpse,
a heart like a zombie,
and a soul like liquid titanium.
and it's all just whispers from the mirror,
whispers I put blind faith in.

shattering glass in the midnight bonfires
flaring purple with the fumes of tin cans and bottle caps.
and with barefeet we were called to run
naked underneath the moon
and howl at the trees;
to walk in packs of hallucinating lunatics
and to reach peaks of mountains where my brothers and sisters
claimed to have found God.

we're the ones that swagger on the sidepath,
sleep in gutters with notebooks and easels
and charcoal. water colours. badly tuned guitars,
rusted tambourines and guttural voices charred by
a thousand cigarette butts,
loosely rolled joints
and handfuls of various powders;
some luxurious and some downright filthy.  

we sleep in forests or on drug dealers floors,
we love like feral animals,
and we dream like cats,
drink like fish,
fly like moths
and drown, drown, drown like sand.

but we refuse to wear a life-vest.

There's a certain uncertainty
About the abyssal night;
Wrapped in sheets of cold sweat,
Head propped up by ghosts.

When the whites of your eyes set
Like a full moon in the ebon sky,
And streetlights take you by the hands
Rushing you through ****-stained alleys,
You won't remember a thing.
You won't remember a thing.

For what it is
The night strips you,
Public and unashamed.
Takes your inhibitions and
Puts them in a safe place.
"You won't be needing these tonight."

That's why I wait for the
Uncertainty of the abyssal night.
To get my kicks with no baggage
And no certain memory of what
I'd left behind.

I was outrun by shooting stars
And sideways shuffles into russian bars,
And liquefying in the back seats of cars,
Plotting maps from mercury to mars.

But I'm still tryin' to make the words fit;
*It all sounds like ****
It all sounds like ****.

Where's my daughter?
She's by the lake
Smoking cigarettes and
Reading poetry.
She's watching a little
black and blue bird
with a tongue-depressor tail
hop and squeak
through the dry
southern grass.
She's listening to
the salt-shaker wind
and sexed-up cicadas
looking for an insectual mate,
or a quick bug ****.

Where's my daughter?
She's looking at the night sky
breaking it into
sectors of
astrological wonders
and making amazement for
herself,
with zodiacal confirmation.
and kissing like a serpent,
talking about
theories of relativity
and mass
and the speed of the light
and making love on
the boot of a car.

Where's my daughter?
She's lying naked
dreaming about whiskey
she can't have
and writing poetry
on the internet.
she's listening to
foreign music
and wishing other
people would do
that too,
with her.
she's wishing boys
wanted to hear her
crude poetry
or talk about
writers with crippling alcoholism
or ****** addictions,
and appreciate art
in a way that isn't
just to get in her pants
after.

Where's my daughter?*
The clouds.
The ******* sky.
That's where she is.
But she's not on a plane.

I can see my own demise,
Like a mystic's mind's eye through a crystal ball.
Ever blackening,
As the ashy winds of dread
Rock our bones like withered trees.
A soul like dry thistles
By obliviously bare feet
And it was crushed to dust
Like the very soil it came from.

Hope? Hope is for the weak,
Hope is for the blind.
Those with clear eyes
Can see this fog will not lift.
We will all have our eyesight fail,
There will be no end to the ashen mists.
Hope is child's play.
We live, we die.
But in the meantime we suffer,
We lose our spirit and we lose our breath,
And when, inevitably, the time comes,
We will lose the will for our hearts to pump.
We will wish that each breath is our last.
And we will wish we'd
Never hoped for anything better.

the mirror is a ghost
that reflects black eyes
brought by your own hands.
tiny pupils in an iris of badly mixed paint.
you are a ghost
without the desire to haunt.
no desire to *****.
or creep up to the boy in the dark hallway
and yell 'boo!'.

every breath, he takes as your own.
his every move could be your demise.
he gives you your flesh back when
he holds you and kisses you,
even when you know he doesn't like to kiss.
he is your pale skin,
your fat thighs and freckles.
he is everything about you,
from your strange secret habits,
to your most embarrassing
**** beach runs, that can
only be remembered
through the tales of others.
he is all of you now
and you know it's a terrible
                                                  terrib­le
                                                              ­  terrible thing.

but the mirror never lies and now you are dust.
ashes to ashes.
your tongue covered in residue from the 70mg
of ****** taken.

but through the calm you wish you had his hand
to brighten your eyes and flesh once more
with just that crooked smile and deep blue eyes
that will never, never, never cease to intoxicate you.

but every night as his soul leaves,
to adventure planes in dreams you could never imagine,
that even by his side, without him there,
forever will you remain but the dust form of an empty human.

I held you so close
The stitches of our clothes hissed with envy;
Turning white fibres a subtle *****-green.
Like we poisoned them with our
Whispers, desperate toes curling,
Fingers gripping bed posts
With the earthy sound of sleepy wood chipping.
And teeth on skin,
Back bones bucking upwards to eachother
From neck-nibbles that spread like wildfire.

But that's just it,
You are wildfire.
You spread from limb to limb,
With all but a flicker and a heavy sigh,
And I'm helpless when you set me alight.
Nought but the deepest pain could bring me
To part with your smoky husk
And fiery hips,
And all the ways you find your way inside me.

and through the pane of glass,
beyond this musky scent developed from
my living secretions of skin and blood and *****;
is the pinnacle of a human condition lacking in my placid genes.
rusted fingers on clone-like machines, screens,
that scream into the ears of jaded men.
A new day!
it rings out through my entire street,
but they all drudge through grey hallways,
for cheap coffee and soggy flakes of flavourless cereal.
curtains closed to the sun.

the lines on their faces,
corrugated to match  the lines on their garage doors.
and with a well-worn-in suit
their car door and shed door open simultaneously.
"no time to breathe in the spring air filling their diesel-filled shed"
I thought.
And with the roaring of the engine,
and the car-port opening wider and wider to the world,
the rusted husks of decaying metal
recoiled into their greater-shells with dissonant creaks.
and it was then I noticed this scraping of steel
had become an orchestra,
or a dreary opera, so apathetically choreographed
for all the sagged faces and fatigued hearts
in the entire drone-army of identical town-houses.
all around me, like bees burdened with their bodies worth of pollen,
one by one, their diesel-pods and people movers
left their hives.
and one by one the rusted-razor blade howling of garage doors
ceased, and the engines had pursued the black tar-road
off further into the distance.
and though the sun shined with such benevolence,
one by one, each car's sun-roof closed,
shades pulled down, blinded willingly to the light.

Tracing the path to higher consciousness
with trembling toes and withering eyes.
beyond the picket fence I saw the
very essence of human suffering.

An abyss of deceit and I was just staring.
within arms reach but something stopped me
from lending myself to an almost hopeless cause.
it was my skin, my flesh.
and boy had it been some time;
the rigidity of bone holding my arms in place.
But as I reached towards these dying people
my skin just couldn't reach.

So I reverted back to my ethereal self
continuing this journey,
trying to blur the overwhelming of the cries around me.
but my intentions are not so selfish as they seem;
how could I spread peace to others
without having found my own?

And the stars on this blood red night;
Wisps of light dancing like
Skeletal ballerinas, crimson eyed.
Black blood stained their teeth
And I held onto my bed sheets
As they descended upon me.
Satanic starlight and ebon hallucinations,
My covers served no refuge.
No refuge.

They came in waves, and I was
Almost falling into these planes of darkness
Dropped upon me by demonic dancing girls,
Like panes of glass falling from a cargo jet.
Yet I smiled.
I was sm**iling

I always attributed that
                 Sickeningly earthy smell of
                                          ***** bongs caked in hash resin
                                                                     To your equally filthy smile

So I take my pleasures from
              A bottle and a sterile pack of pills.
                                       Because that sweet smelling nugget
                                                                          Will always reek of you.

I measured my shudders in touches.
And you had me shaking like a stray dog
Left out in the rain, howling and desperate.

And the dust
made up the desert of my organs.
my blood had become a thick clay,
heart pumping red tar
in my drought-ridden flesh.

I had reached them,
the great pyramids.
But in their looming figures my body found no comfort.
Spluttering muddy phlegm,
regurgitating blood,
and skin flaking from my crisped nose.

I yelled, screaming for Ra's blessing.
But all I got was the hollow touch
of Osiris's green tinted skin.

husks of albino spiders crumbling
deep within the bowels of icy caves.

shells of those speckled black and brown,
rolling like tumbleweed across dead plains.

orange fangs slimed with millenniums of muck,
drowning deeper into the bogs, each inch worth a thousand years.

glossy black  carcasses entwined in their own webs,
swollen abdomen draining, but growing heavy with dust and gnats.

you made my blood clot,
so slowly and gently,
coagulating beneath your faint touch.

on flaxen sheets of rough cotton
I watched your plants
rolling their limbs out your open window.
they sprawled themselves, unravelling,
yearning for the gentle kiss
of the suns rays.
an almost ****** photosynthesis.
and for you I would sprawl myself out too,
and with the same eagerness
absorb every scent of yours into my flesh,
and drink desperately from your soul
like a cacti in its first summer shower
since '89.

and your final gasp,
with me, but a sponge
for your every metaphoric suppuration,
and literal secretion.
and you were transfixed there,
spurting auras of sin and love.
a final burst of ecstasy,
you soon became my anticoagulant.

you seeped into my bloodstream,
reversing this gentle coagulation.

you leave your body only to look down upon yourself.
all you are is a pill.
small. homemade.
slight pink tinge.

but ya daddy couldn't make you right.
he was too poor and he needed the money quick.
so he found a quick fix.
mixed you up until that spark in you,
the spark people pay good money to feel,
was almost all gone.

but now you couldn't find the spark in yourself either.
you couldn't remember who you were.
and then some chump bought you for a hefty price.
you lay shivering and confused on his mucous membrane
while he waited for your kick, your spark.
he wanted something from you that you just couldn't give 'im.

it wasn't long before he realised he'd been ****** over
by some broke home-pharmacist.
meanwhile, you'd completely lost yourself inside him,
pieces of you scattered all through his bloodstream,
too disfigured to notice he'd driven back up to ya daddy's rugged shack.
kicked the doors in.
splashing kerosene like liquid confetti.

with just one spark ya daddy got dead.
and you were still stuck in his system,
useless.

you'll be excreted soon, like you were never even there.
good good,
'cause they don't get their kicks from people like you.

your soul, that night
had taken on the consistency of flesh,
the way it shivered under
my dry lips.
it began to leak,
moistening the atmosphere.
I was covered in this fluid
secreted from your suddenly
tangible soul.
it consumed me
I was intoxicated.
vision blurred while your soul continued
seeping it's godly elixir all over my body.

When it reverted back to its incorporeal form
and the sticky liquid soaking my lips and body dried to a crust,
we would never be separated from each other,
ever again.

Now listen here kid.
I've got one thing 'ta say t'ya.
Never, never ever step into the limelight.
It is dangerous and you are bound for failure.

Yer a shadow-kid, kid.
The light isn't where ya belong.
You stay here, with us
In the cold dark sterility.
Where the dogs are rabid
and their hair thrives only in patches.
You can try get a taste for tha light,
But in the end you'll come slinking back.
Doe-eyed and blinded,
embarrassed.

Yer a shadow-kid, kid.
The silence, the darkness.
Nothingness amidst everything.
Yer the one they try find,
but'cha gotta slip away,
slip, slip and slink and slide
back into the shadows,
until your skin is as
transparent as your soul.

heavy head, ****** and tired sleep echoes through my corridor head. love, a treasure, buried deep within my x-marked chest; i stuck blades of grass in a picture frame, because everything else went away: like the cleaning lady outside my door, vacuum like a pet dog, pawing at carpet, grooming it with its soft, snuffly nose. mess cleaned and she went away. vacuum like a pet dog, hip-hugging, man's best friend.

lines in the bathroom, lines out the back. waiting and shaking with a crazy laugh filled with warmth like a smile radiating from my muscles. powder leaves the plastic surface, like the cleanin lady outside my door, and her sniffling, snuffling vacuum-dog. ****** into a ten dollar bill, with a whimper and a sigh, the pup hops away with its owner, the cleaning lady off to brush along some other fool's corridors.

on the cold steel, the train slows down, a mile out from the station. up hill, down hill, steam choking carriage, searching for thrill in the click clack, crazy rails of a cool powder train. in the bathroom crushing pills to get you up hill, down hill, with a steam choked carriage and that cleaning lady outside my door, she brought that dog, and he was barking real loud, makin' a fool out of me, in the bathroom of that click clack, crazy powder train. hands scritch' scratchin' on the white sheets, until in a moment, it all crumbles to dust, ridin' on the wind's back, leaving like they all do, like the cleaning lady outside my door, and that pet vacuum-dog of hers.

i have melted with the shadows
and my soul has been
set alight and
espoused with all these
words spurting
from my veins

you can find me where the thorns start to thrive,
in the long grass with the lost footballs of better years,
and childhood memories buried under
thistles and weeds.

you can find me where the path is grown over,
under the tree where a hundred boys and girls
who had once kissed eachother,
will never kiss again.

you can find me in the pawn shop,
among the wedding rings engraved
'I'm yours for eternity'.

order is the comfort zone of the simple minded.
they were born into sterility,
administration, bureaucracy,
sign here, here and here.
now the formalities are out of the way,
you can raise the **** child.

but chaos, chaos comes naturally to me.
I sway in cyclonic winds,
with psychotic grins,
and blossom like weeds after
a sun-shower.
when the world around me slips
slowly into insanity,
I slip into my slippers,
take a shot of *****,
and look out the window,
laughing all night long.

The circle of life,
Grow, shrink, expand, shrink, and die.
This is how we live.

Fast paced, action packed.
To the sober apathy.
One or the other.

I am a puppet.
Success bores me, make haste, I
Push myself back down.

A soup of thoughts
ocean of humanity
onion-seaweed adrift
in a salty stock-lake
to the far reaches
of our existence.
A fear of the shoreline,
far off distant abyss
yet in the safety
of the puddle
we intertwine our
melted-butter hearts
sticky liquid mess
of icing sugar
dribbling down our
thighs bathing in the
brain-stew, hoping
to one day feel the
sand of the shore
exfoliate our
scaly toes.

Woke up to you with
one hand round my thighs and
one hand round a warm cigarette.
Wisps of smoke rolled playfully
out your dishevelled, handsome grin;
makin’ a break for it through
ivory jail-cell-bar teeth.
And as you ashed into your empty coffee cup,
black, three shots,
I bent my body over yours,
hips hovering bouyantly,
hands crowning your face
and I kissed that smoky grin of yours
I kissed it with every muscle in my lips
and with every breath in my lungs,
'til your tar-stained teeth shined
like lost pearls in a rough sea.

Keys in the front door.
Sun reluctantly disappears
and your fingers mesh with mine,
with another hand I lit a warm cigarette.
you kiss me as I empty out a glass, and heave my crystal lungs.
Your hands on my hips, taking a drag.
They all say:
if this is love then I don’t want none,
if this is love then you two got it right.
And the moon had peeped its head through our window
moon-beams singin’ us to sleep
amid a haze of smoke, and wine,
and passion that could’a melted the whole **** city.
And our bodies had intertwined,
with one hand we held eachother close, and the other
we wrapped around
a warm cigarette

fill your mouth with dirt and
smile wide so the world can
see your filthy obsession.
let rocks wear down your teeth and
sand-paper your organs,
to fit nicely with your
black lungs and fried brain.

fill your mouth with *** and
let it take the shape of your teeth and tongue,
till it multiplies into a new life form,
then swallow before it
waves its little fingers in agony.
o the delight of control.

fill your mouth with powder and
take a drink to feel the soft breeze more gently.
let the light into your skull,
let it surface to the top of your oceanbody;
to be heard clearly without the blur of the
water which rages around it.
there is no interference now with reality.

fill your mouth with blood and
exert control over body and soul.
flesh in between your teeth;
let it be you that feasts,
not he who is feasted upon.
sacrificial addiction, take your pick and
eat up, kid.

fill every inch of your body with pleasure,
and every cavity with sparks,
and your organs with gluttony and smog and
sleep for days and spend nights upon nights
in blissful indulgence
until the time when your frail body gives in and you must
let it empty every crevice of its weary vessel.

lightning bolts in my brain
shoot like meteors through my skull
and limbs became rivers.
it all flowed through me
like molten veins that pulsed
with the breath of the earth.

it is the heaven I long for
to be immersed in this small
section of time and space that
compresses the muscle in my limbs
into a flesh soup, it is like floating
in a sea of myself.

Inside my body is a garden.
a piercing wound is closed by
Vines curling around the chasm
Pulling the two folds of skin ever closer.
And as it heals
A red rose blossoms, like a pink scar, otherwise.

This garden breathes
Its gills are a dewy’d, petal’d wonderland
Veins stretch like roots
Tendrils that ever entwine my flesh-soil
And bones like coal
Fossilize.
Into the depths of the earth they
Lay and wait.
The dark that keeps the cogs turning.

But what the eye cannot see,
it cannot truly hold beauty.
No beauty such as the blossoms
Sprouting from my wounds.

scabbed scab upon a
scabby scab.
scratch the scratchy
scabby scab with
scaly fingers and
shaky scrapy screams.

continuously tripping
over lightly treading
toes in the black
night of a torn
sky where the
heavens tweak
trialled tears to
trace your
muddied jaw line.

withered willow fingers
scratch at watery eyes.
wooden and hollowed and
weighed down by the
world’s cold will.
wronged by a witchy woman.

cracked tealight
candle fissures,
molten chasms in a
waxy cradle.

dip your fingers,
capped, hard,
cooled pumice-wax.
peel your new
finger-mould,
digit capsule.

The warm, fleshy cavity above your ***-chasm,
A crown jewelled with ruby shards.
Natural worm sauna with tunnels that slide through your body -
Feeling for a bed of penetrable goo.
The life-sanctum twitches and spreads itself among the welcomed visitors
And with heavy breaths heaving the walls,
And hands that push and pull with a
Warmth to make little sighs come to life
In a breathing, heaving ***-orchestra.

no no I am not here.
no sir, not one bit of me is here.
check the gutter,
or the dirt in the bottom of your pocket.
could be there.
could be anywhere really.
but sure as hell
I ain’t here.

aching.
ya want heaven huh?
ya gonna have to deal with
a constant ache
in ya gut
in ya bones
in ya head
n in ya heart.

heaven don’t come free kid.
heaven is just the
rich man’s hell.

We’ve set sail and
Our heads have been in the clouds
For the past six months.

I took you to other worlds
You took me to
The real world,
Not flushed out of
Perspective from
A skinny blonde
With a pocket of
Perfectionism and
Middle class ignorance.

You’ve never looked down
Your nose at me,
Even when we kiss
You close your eyes
And breathe me in fully.

Rejects with big dreams
And big hearts
And a big hatred for the world.

And you said you couldn't ever love
But you hold me so close when
You’re dreaming in the early hours of the night.

light whispered to our quiet souls on that ethereal night where we
dove headfirst into the nethertides;
void jumping, hopping
wormhole slipping.
wide eyes fixated on the
thousands of stitches of space and time
like astralwebs
creeping with celestial spiders
that you couldn’t help but
break with each breath.

You breathed gin.
This is blood for you.
Your hands held your hair and your eyes shut.
The alcohol lulled your brain to black.

It escaped your veins,
Diluted by 37.5% truth serum.

Gasping at the
Divine realisation
Where slurred lips
Contradicted
Your once straight-faced,
Certainly-certain speakings
Of your very crooked lie.

So crooked, it wound his heart around yours.
But that ball of yarn unravelled in an instant.
And the jumper you knit together,
Came apart
Stitch by stitch.

In my fogged memory,
I had choked myself that night
With a bottle and a ball of yarn.

The seeker looks.
The seeker does not listen.
The seeker knows the voices in his head tell lies.

The seeker hides.
The seeker's bones become shadow.
The seeker knows not to let his muscles creak.

The seeker feels
Inside his pockets
Where he found Knowledge-Gnomes and carving tools.

The seeker sees
Through brass, rose-tinted goggles
And bushed eyebrows and bags that sank into his cheeks.

The seeker reads.
The seeker's hands touch parchment,
The seeker's hands feel ink, like a kings would gold.

The seeker knows all, yet nothing.
The seeker speaks all, yet nothing.
The seeker's wisdom, enchanted into every grain of sand,
And yet enchanted, still, into none at all.