pplop

grey grey shadow will you permit a little light on this black black plain? we have crops to plant, you see and the flat black void is swallowing us the fence in the distance a line of teeth cannot grit against the wild beasts that roar love letters to us isolated from the warm lips of the bright mountain we stand on the bitter tongue of dirt sewn and laced with salt will you please shed a little light on no-shape, no-safe, no-breeze we have crops to plant, you see and no rope, no ladder, no tree.

decades and centuries of lightning have burnt their mercury tattoos into the skin of this patchwork plain emperors, consuls, explorers and slaves have sailed its silver thread tides and salted its lines with their tears embroidered by a chinese madman on a child's winter quilt, this indecipherable tangle of charlatans begs no humility as one, the swarm of jewelstrings carve their names into the land and churn the loam to reveal a reflection of the aged, greying sky no bridge across this braid, for where would it begin? and who, which earth-chained farm-boy could ever dream of a world on the other side? the village cuffed to this

Anything would be more useful than what I'm doing right now. I sit at the computer and I am encapsulated by it. I come with my thoughts, hoping to input, but I end up falling down a black hole made up entirely of consumption. I see or hear something I like and it leads me down another dark tunnel, and I think I glimpse light so I follow it but it doesn't lead me to the surface, it leads me further into tighter spaces, until I reach a dead wall, and go back and explore the places I didn't get to see clearly before. My curiosity leads me on to heaven knows where next.

grey whispers echoes paper moving fingers stroking lips flabbing teeth clicking machines spinning machines throbbing beating breathing pumping out air pens clicking paper folding slicing bouncing tapping people waiting minds melting melding wanting out all of it wanting out I look up at the clock Above it a very dark window. Four black sheets of glass. In the reflection, a lamp. And again, above it, a lamp. The clock says: 1.30 I am going to die. Around the window and the clock, corrugated pin-holed iron. Then chairs. 2 ½ metres worth of chairs. The shadows this lamp casts are long. too long. I st