Eyes split like a cat hair,
The oncoming cessation of light ,
A suffocating debt,
Not in gold, bodies quartered or the matted hair of children,
No longer may we prostrate ourselves,
Nature is brandishing its power,
A vengeful god with its teeth bared,
A vicious landlord deaf to the bleating of its thankless tenants,
Centipedes, snakes and flora do not cower,
The burden of knowing is ours,

Abandoned children with eyes cut out, lungs stained and bodies burned,
Our illusory thirst and desires have cut our throats,
Our backs broken,
A demise that was our own doing,
We consumed and did not create,
Accumulated but did not come together.

They eloped behind the door. Her baggage colliding with his baggage. There was an eerie atmosphere, but they tried to concentrate on their bodies. By doing so, the eerie atmosphere seemed less imposing. Their eyes were red-rimmed. They were heaped full of caffeine and gluten-heavy sandwiches, it was surprising that they felt amorous really. Although there was nobody else present, it felt like there was a presence in the room. This could have been the hum from the insect killing machine located next to the copier. When their bodies met each other it gave off the sound off a shotgun going off, kind of, gentler than that really. Neither of them climaxed, separating without Ill will. They spent the rest of the afternoon discussing regret via the direct messaging app on a well known famous social media app. Much to the amusement of the CIA operative spying on their company.

My blank mouth,
Mummering half-words and compressed sentences,
Triggering his hate,
All a misunderstanding really
His patience convulsing
These things can be a trigger to less enviable states,
Is it drastic that I want to end?
A forest floor and some last restful thoughts,
Body layen out like tinned goods,
Some kind of logic to do with presentability,
My organs works of macabre art not yet returned to the earth,
Birds sorting through my body like archivist from gods,

I lay very still in the bath,
here, there and in incidental celestial light,
trying to inspire a revolution without opening my mouth
if you just wait long enough
the loose ends that are appearing like locusts
will tie themselves up,
Silk and completeness,

The noise was incessant, a jungle in a suburban street.  Their uninhibited laughter and carefree glide as they strutted down the pedestrianised street. All jumping in turn over the bollards at the end of the street; shrieking at each other. They didn't give two *****, cocky little *******. They were all hair, charity shop jumpers, and self centered to boot. One of them parked his sporty ****** car in the back-lane, like he was trying to colonise the space between his house and theirs. This prevented his easy access; he couldn't get out effortlessly on his bike any longer (several thousand pounds, carbon fiber, a serious model) or unload his shopping. In a semi-lagered up state; post-Friday night drinks up the town he had gotten himself into a revengeful state. He wanted to show the little ******* that he was not to be messed with. Thinking he was just some bald middle aged fella in a parka, he'd show them.

He let his resentment get the better of them, keying ''****'' into the car. **** them, a keying well deserved, don't want keying then turn Black Sabbath down. He had felt briefly guilty the next day; eggs on toast and coffee wondering if he should have done something so drastic. He was ultimately mild-mannered and avoided conflict where possible. His guilt diminished when the music started up again; he hadn't had a moment's peace since they moved in. He felt like they were insects on a hot day; constantly invading his personal space and making him feel uncomfortable. They woke him up constantly; he hadn't had a decent night's sleep in weeks. His skin was getting paler, his eyes bloodshot. They should try looking at excel spreadsheets for hours on end, punching in formulas on 3 hours sleep. None of them had worked an honest day's work in their lives, little *******. He hated their flat caps, berets and other arty accessories. Sometimes he thought about lining them up like dominoes in height order and pushing them off the Tyne Bridge. Or feeding them to the dogs at Brough Park- **** little *******. Sliding up the street- carefree and laughing at nothing in particular. Laden down with cheap cider and frozen pizzas. His friendly notes had been ignored, if diplomacy fails then it is time for military action. Politeness was no use anymore. They obviously couldn't care less about keeping him up; night after night, making him miserable. He put on his black Adidas tracksuit and his Berghaus jacket zipped up to his face with the hood up. He put a ball-peen hammer down the back of his jogging pants, he smeared joop on his bald-head, on his ears and on his neck. He walked next door ''Once in a lifetime'' playing in his head, jumped over the little garden wall and banged on the door. As he banged on the door, he heard the clanging of a snare drum bursting out of the window. He didn't have time to react as the stonework from the window ledge above fell on his head. He never did get a chance to make his grievances clear.

If you could imagine hums and whirs and beeps. Her eyes bulging, not being able to discern what she was really all about. Silks, precious fabrics,  high-end cosmetics. Neutral, objective, unfathomable. She seemed to fill the space like a gas with a pleasant odour.  'So you have a degree but want to work as a checkout assistant, how come?'. Uneasy, light attacking and her eyes looking at my face. I look down, shuffle in my chair and gulp. 'Well, it is a company with an excellent reputation and in all honesty I have bills to pay''. She smiles, but without conviction. ''Have you tried to find jobs more relevant to your degree?''.  I pick up the scissors and cut a sizable lump of flesh out of my forearm. I pick up the plastic chair and throw it as hard as I can against the interview room window. She flees the room, afraid, nervous and easy to read.

His marriage imploded; smoke and insinuations. It was a shock that he always knew was coming. His conscience sent him North; a man and his bags. He was 38 and had gained weight. A once handsome face melting away into middle-aged near-obesity. Ruing over what he was not proud of, every human interaction was endlessly scrutinised. He felt that he had a true essence that he had not yet uncovered. If he could discover it then he would build a new story around it, one that would get his life back on track. His meals were no hopers; microwaved, industrial and sodium filled. His meals and his days did not nourish him. Feeling lonely, he had started to go to the pub. Although he stuck out, he found the locals rough but friendly enough. They, the 3 lads, were going to come around for a smoke. A little bit of companionship might stop the walls from eating him up. They were all in their mid-twenties, he'd guess, so younger than him but not oddly so. He flipped between politics today and sky sports news; chain smoking like it was a vital function. He drank a can of san pelligrino blood orange, slowly, his mouth overwhelmed by the sugary taste. He sighed from the tip of his toes to the crown of his head. Within an hour, like his marriage he would no longer exist.