he Listens Close To men Of
Bygones, big dion and Cardiff's colin.
real football men, Once i
Suppose. both Bask In Sunsets
Forged From Inconsequence (Not To them
At Least).

A third Antagonises, Dead Set On Provocation That Rips The Barely-Sown Saplings Away, Simply Leaving A Delusional Deluge In Its Wake. these he Pities. As Sponsored Mannequins Chatter And Shill
In Response; Faux Outrage.

he Glances. To The Left
another Blows his Brains Out.
Bravo.

Fresh and familiar. Without a glance,
The oily crimson smears.
Investigation festers, fragments. You are not
Alone. Wise echoes crow. But,

what do they know.
Of blots which twist and tear.
Previously unbeknownst terrors they rear,
What a mess.

Mere sight repulses and sickens,
Inside no clot can keep or
Confide. In those who cheep and grasp;
Gaggles assure - assanine.

Out ****** spot! I banish thee!
Cleansing with unholy water; tainted rose.
I ought reach this point eventually
And yet.

Cherchez la femme, alas
To seek is feeble,
unbecoming to attest.
When this weak ends,
let me lie.

A letcherous leer adorns my face and basks, in that sweetest moment of torment.
Though merely collected syllables, they scythe and sneer. Silent, they dwell;
But they will rear their
grotesque complexities.
Once more.

And Dust stagnant chaos debris lay surface on below whilst circles frenzied.

Repeats.

"What." how? "But!" These jagged prongs should scar; not now but not labouring.
I hope u forget the ink which pierces flesh and contorts within. Or you may
feed, comfort, adore.
The firey filament splutters. A staunch, relentless approach to the shore. Will
you see?

Did that fabled ruby fall with such ease?
It rolls toward me - knowingly -
with grave purpose clear.
A glance Heaven-ward offers hope; reassurance even; that they all end up
this way.

Meanwhile, moored folk flock to go:
This way, out, private politicians plotting their escape. Looking so natural. Practised and prim. It is why the eventual carving blade shall be so smooth and swift?

I take it just as they had then. But,
Rather than soil or stain,
Aching flesh simply crumbles in my Palm.
The Grave always beckons it. I already listen for the next branch struggling to avoid it's inevitible yield.
I urge it on.