Plotting points on a map
If point A’s where I’ve landed then point B’s where I wish I was at
In between said points is a storm cloud forming the fore-written laws that enforce how the stories elapse
Life in a matchbox
Striking a fuse to a move on the chessboard
Checkmate
Like moths to a fresh flame
Death’s gaze dawn heavy pours on the pawns of a fresh day
Cause and effect like carcases fall from the force of the wreck like dominoes
Pour from the time glass sandstorm particles cast over all in this mess
Dawn of the vanguard template
Tarmac scattered on a spectrum
Following a set path goose-step
Four laws numerous form from the manmade mandates channels of the death march who’s next? The periscope lines of these movements
Back to the chalkboard spinning like computers
End-game total grimace at the half rate cynicism parlay vision of the future
Sunshine rays on the radar are sweeping an unholy sequel this evening
Stream of the four points forming co-ordinates caught in the mortuary grease we’re secreting
Breaths grow heavy
Lung sacks weathered raw
Set course pattern stretch death door teleport
March of the crow’s feet nails in the coffin tops
Caught in the annals like a Copperpot travelog
In these days of the behemoth
Great days fall foul to the storm cloud
Short of the centre tapped like inner city switchboards bleeping – Towns lost miniature railroad patterns pass
Grid patterns pass over life lost linear
Kerouac cinema dead pan road films
Carved from the bone brittle scars of the canon beams
Waves of the future clash with the past
These marvellous back flips deep in the omens
Cast in a concrete cenotaph planting and penning raps parcelling venom sacks doper
Until the heavens crack open and the paths get soaked by the bars like pins in a rat maze ascertain motion
Gravitate lacerate acid rain potions
In a place where the granite slate laminates walls to the floor lined lawless
Cracks stay filled up tours of the back straight map face walls of the match face porous
Grey grains in the daylight storm of the swansong
Heads get smashed into pieces – swords in the chest plate animate jigsaw patterns fade gaps in a death door thesis
All that has gone wrong thrives in the skirting
Lines of the slipstream dive in the tide of the verminous tight wing turbulence hiding the truth in the clues of a fresh fire burning.
