Another sting
on the beach at Herne Bay –
I put my head between my knees
and let the **** bite roll through me,
and when I look up
I can't tell whether the
tide is going out
or coming in –
    you didn't do it on purpose,
    of course.

As I walk
towards the vanishing point,
a white pebble
with black veins
    catches my eye.

I hold it gently, like an egg,
    a dragon's egg
    you said –
admiring it and planning
to slip it into my tote.

But in the revolution of a moment
I turn on my heel and,
crushing the stone against my palm,
I fill it with what you said
    and hurl it into the water.

And then I feel better.

I’ve been given my yellow ticket of leave. Freedom tastes like burnt coffee and soggy toast; I just can’t make breakfast the way the NHS and 10years in psychiatric medicine at Oxford teaches you to.
Everyone in the neighbourhood knows The Housing. Even if they didn’t, the residents that arrive every few months and are gone after nights of screaming and wolf-howls give it away. These sounds will sing around suburbia until something stronger than insanity stops them. The pavements aren’t quite at peace and the buildings seem to sag in the satirical sun in shame. Even the streets just don’t seem quite sane. There are always the telltale signs. The closed curtains in the blazing heat on all the houses on only one side of the road. Or the grinning garden gnomes arranged in a straight line, crushing golden petals beneath their terracotta wellingtons (their smiles glisten like bear traps). Or the flash of a white coat in the sun, dissolving into crevices in the façade of identical houses, row after row.
I don’t think I was destined for dissolution row. But the same old story rears it’s ugly dead; been there, done that, found someone better. Her, not me. I always had an overactive imagination anyway. Like Tourette’s, but in my head. It’s all irrelevant now anyway, because I’ve been chosen.
On visiting The National Gallery of Google, I stumble upon Edvard Munch and absorb. Anxiety, love, death. The flowing figures restricted in brush strokes and paint, but free in immortality and fame, beguile me with their drooping, hooded eyes, until I can hear their delineated tongues like a choir.
Time to stop procrastinating, start prognosticating.

There is absolutely no doubt about it. The signs are clearer than a pool of melted diamonds. But no-one believes a person without a PHD in theology and a 2 foot beard.
The world is ending.
I tried to warn them again today, but they can’t see past insanity when they look at me; I seem to scream it in wild eyes, or perhaps the scent of crazy is leaking from my pores. Dark shadows around my eyes no extortionate amount of sleep or light could chase away. Once – before I’d gotten used to the insomnia – I took the razor to my head and freed the languid hairs; cleansing my own microcosmical globe of all irrelevant past discretions and pollutants. The human body usually purges the blood of most chemicals within 78 hours, but hair retains traces forever that will find you; bite you in the back. However, I still can’t sleep even though I should now be pure as a newborn baby and the chaos theory is thus disproved, and my ingenious-at-4am idea does nothing but further isolate me from any kind of credibility.
The world is still ending.
I can feel it in my bones, and taste it in my sweat. I may appear to be crazy, but under the surface I am still and so, so sane. The galactic metamorphism begins. A new seventh sense stirs within me. It takes a while to adjust but now I can see into the souls of anyone and everyone; I see their sins and their destinations. I can leave the house now, self–assured with a new burst of determination, laughing at all the five-sensed ****** without a clue. I will be the only one making the most of my final days. I walk along the pier, buy a six dollar ice-cream, and fill my hours with watching others. No-one stares anymore as if I am slowly fading into translucency. Those with evil deep-rooted are black, like coals waiting for a spark, any excuse to catalyse destruction and pain. ******, Stalin. Even without my monotone-rainbow sense it can be identified in the coldness of their pupils; their glassy exteriors. They will turn to the coal they are inside, literally, fuel hell and wish they’d listened to my warnings. The heroes of the world are white, pure white, but there aren’t very many of them. Most people are a ***** shade of grey. In between and undecided; neither here nor there. Purgatory. I am green, because I am sick. No-one cares where I’m going. I don’t care.
There isn’t long left now.
With life in black and white the sky becomes awash with colour. Shepherd’s delight tonight, and what a perfect night to die. The clouds are pink, painted coarsely over a glowing red azure sky. It makes sense to me. Finally, I am not alien, I am not in the dark, confused, alone. Instead, it is everyone else without foresight. They are isolated together, and I am solitarily integrated. I am told to go back to the pier, say goodbye, and watch the world literally, actually, flash by my eyes. It’s my gift, my reward for my broken brain; I am at the theatre and the only one with dramatic empathy for the characters led by convention. I float down the pier, and now I know I’m not mad. The sky pulsates, angry, vengeful. Particles expand, shrink, and re-inflate.  I can’t help but laugh at the beautiful hopelessness, and the ultimate despair. A song of delight, true, genuine, hilarity explodes out of me and spills into the thickening atmosphere. Two blacks, glare with their telescopic eyes, old me would’ve ran, hidden, driven by fear, but for the first time ever, all humankind is equal. Money and power, the drivers of society are null. Soon I know the men will turn to ash and blow away.
Mid-laugh, the sea swells, becomes beast, and swallows us whole.

Like a daisy
Rising curious from the charcoal ash
Of a forest fire scorch

Through all the anguish and doubt,
As broad as a still summer sky
Comes clarity.

So here's to all the arsonists of the world,
Lest the beauty of metamorphism
Succumb to stagnation
And turn to rot.

Am I crazy for wanting to crawl out of my skin?
This endless craving for violent metamorphism pulsing in my heart
My stomach hungry for my own end
This body a bloated ****** whale carcass waiting to explode
As my skeleton wrestles its achy bones from this cocoon of flesh
Discarding the rotten remains of my own prison
Even then will I be free?

The Duoverse being thrown from its entrails from Vernarth's mouth, an objectual free fall is noticed after disengaging from the quantum Universe, rather than an illusive cacophony that unfolds separated from their bodies in all dimensions, except Verthian time, alluding to to stone him to ignore himself in agony and return to look for him to revive him as a Light-Space, in the presence of matter reflected from itself, which will unfold throughout the Hellenic chapels, from Kímolos to Tsambika, to make the curves the direct passage that it bends time again toward a divided dimensionality. Barefoot was the apostle next to Vernarth in the three quarters of axioms and mathematics, where the conceptuality would overcome the low calculation of what already ministered by them. Creating space for lapses in the dreamlike staircases, with Topaz steps, in this particular case of Saint John the Apostle, "seeing open heavens and angels of God going up and down on the son of man." Here are illuminated some sidereal Solar glitters that have nights for a sunny day, Vernarth resting on the side of the Monastery with a stone on its head and dozing to dream like Etréstles in the Hexagonal Baptistery of the Shepherds of Ein Karem, but of the compact sweet of the famous luminous Cinnabar ascending vertically where the Yahvic Being, who was presented to him as his Abrahamic patriarchate nexus. Endowing him with celestial dreams on stones that inherit west and east and noon to the north, in a space of dreams of Jacob's subconscious, which would make him materialize descendants but when he returned to the spaces of Yahweh again, but as a reflection and space, dominating the essence and leitmotif of Etréstles in the Cisterns fleeing from the Praetorians, but at the same time from the Hexagonal Primogeniture very close to them, perhaps in the fourth mounted giga camel ..., in another instance, returning to the site of the successive Yaveh, to anoint oil on the small stones that slept in his primitive remote consciousness, in whose hippocampus stones were propelled between Bethelem and Ein Karem for the office of residence of lineage and Hebrew-Aramaic, still in property of luminance of ascending and ascending transit stairs. descending lineage, in spaces that were born from others but from flat structured ideals, but with cubic tendencies towards a quantum linear metamorphism, in phases of alignment and synchronicity of existences and pastoral dreams, embodied in the paternal visceral of the evolutionary field of the Zigzag Universe, relating the chronology of Etréstles in the bell tower of the baptistery with his poisonous incompassionate dream that upsets the period of chemical nightmare and hallucinatory Jacobin fantasy, rather than rudiment of his nature ..., poured out to his Brother Esau of internal lineage and of curved change of psychic permutation.

The pointer of an autumn night showed conditions absorbed in the successive bars and bastions, bustling in cylindrical temporalities, with escapes of internality and vertical externality, detailing dynamics of ups and downs, but with empty hands, towards an expected magic that moves the span like a Laser maneuvered from origin to destination, external and internal, absorbed in its entirety by the uncoupled Universe in its entirety, delivering it to the Duoverse in metaphors of lights after others uncontrolled, boasting about Venetian ultraviolet lights over crystalline copper bite waters, and overwritten in the plates diluted from the canvas of graduated pigment, but with drops of sweat of light and white water that were reflected around the perimeter of the monastery, enveloping them in fragments and greenish fountains, to the satisfaction of the luminous pictorial ligament. It is thus detected as a timid but decisive reflection pointer of space and reflection, which includes fragments of spectrum and tonalities of machine unconscious to raise the Duoverse in a depressive day of scathing moment.