Specks of electroluminescent sand leave third degree burns on the abysmal beach.
Driftwood, like messages in bottles, rolls up on the banks.
From Washington? From San Juan? From the British Columbia mainland? Or have they all drifted in from the riot of the Pacific theater? They roll up without complaint of the commotion they no doubt suffered on their journey from wherever, to in front of our feet.
Deteriorated, rotten and rancid
But unbreakable nonetheless.
We have no choice but to build something, because the advocated creative coincidence that just occurred leaves no room for complacency.
It's cold, but we all have homes,
It's wet, but we all have clothes.
The Scouts that we are
Our eyes roll back in unison, as the waves of Cadboro Bay crash, and the wind breezes through the cracks of our collective pride.

Schreib dein buch.
Wait for nothing, tremble before your Magnum Opus
Stretch wearily into
the  b l a c k  night
Scratch the face of the universe, gleam the reflecting gem of god onto blank slides
of  b l a c k  holes
Mutilate anything but your own being, nurture versus nature converges into
the  b l a c k  oblivion
Open fire on the dead tissue of existence
Set fire to the dry hillsides of though and realize that nothing can be distilled.
Coerce the power that be, storm the castles and crush yourself under the weight
You are not Atlas
**** everything in the ocean-blue eyes of perfection, give all enigmas of dubious insurrection a second round of scrutiny.
Grow old with burning hate, reverse with a searing despise for nothing, die with
a  b l a c k  heart
Annihilate everything external, revive everything internal with the remaining energy of
your  b l a c k  mind
Absorb everything, throw every single solitary unified force into the sand and let it drown into 
       the  b l a c k tide.
Werfen Ihr Buch.

The flailing sails of a million ships, trudging into discovery or conquest, wheels screaming in the snow and gravel. Barrels pirouetting, until you hear the mechanism move into place with a thick onomatopoeia of some kind. Millimeters-I-don't-know-how-many cartridge locks. Vicious speeds only centimeters over the palm trees. Wings clipping occasional leaves, like the man with the scythe himself. Sick harvest moon, ready for the daily sacrifice. The daily ritual. No prisoners, no mercy. No withered old men to push their crescent steel triggers.

What do you make of this?
I ask my cup of morning oil
Loyally sitting in front of me
the oil of versatility.
The oil that pushes me
with the ferocity
of a combat rooster
I sit in silence and contemplation
as my feet begin to itch. I must go. I must find time, of which I have little. I must discover the spaces between spaces to act out this sickness of desperation. I turn to my oil deity. As I run and stumble and fall in search of my cure, she sits there on the table every day, waiting for me to come home, knowing that I am just as sick as when I left and as the day before.
My love and damnation
She makes me endure.