One Man’s War

When the blood ran off his hands the war was over, and he turned his eyes to the vast, burning wasteland that marked his wake. He sighed and wiped the dead from his face, the gristle and blood falling inconsequentially onto the crimson soaked earth.

It was time to go home.

He stared at the horizon, a statue slowly sending shadow spreading with the sun’s descent. Then he ran, pounding steadfast past corpses, leaping nimbly across the eviscerated, hurtling on the tips of his toes as an avalanche of putrefying meat and rusting paraphernalia of war filled his field of vision, sending nanotech bullets into the hordes of over-ambitious scavengers tearing at the decay, reeling himself up a sheer cliff face as highly militarised alien technology silvered through the effluvia below, loping through the healing country past the bursts of wildflower and dancing insects that push from the vibrant grass, falling in a dream that shakes him awake on a cold cave floor, brushing his fingers ecstatically on the rippling wheat rolling on to the horizon that flashes as the sun sinks from view.

The thatched cottage, luminous in constellation light, sent out waves of warm heat and scent. He sank to his knees, the long strobe of days heavy on his flesh and soul. His eyes filled with the light. His voice was hoarse as he yelled at the golden vision that seemed magically there, his leaden legs finally propelling him forward to embrace her in a whirling hug sparkling with tears and litanies of love.

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non sequitur: unrelated stanzas

my life is a panorama of wasted effort

when ten toes are a crowd these shoes have got to go

my heart beats for everyone

reality is an inside out soul, what’s the difference between you and me?

i am given to pause when i sniff flowers for they are plant vaginas and penises

a house is meaningless in summer but is everything in the winter

i am always falling, only it seems i am staying still

cash plus  impulse plus  store equals afterwards hollow feeling like cheap sex

what is really of the utmost importance? things go away

helping people at 2, 3am at work wakes me up feeling like a damn is given

after winter left i don’t really see night any more

i am used to being poor i like it. at least there your priorities are ordered

i am not afraid of change; it just tires me out

openly advocating anarchy i am secretly afraid of it really happening

a self-inflicted cut exists on my finger from a lack of caution

everyone is angry

i have a hungry monster inside always wanting something more i don’t know

everyone is a sex toy

doomed to be a jack of all trades, glimpsing each, mastering none

agh agak gahk! strange sounds are calming, zchow!

i drink yerba mate laced with cayenne pepper

indifference

a coin only has one side; everything else is  Schrödinger’s cat

a life is a paroxysm of pursuit

Floweros

When I see a field of wildflowers swirling with the passage of honeybees and grazing grasshoppers, I see a vast flowery orgy. Cunt-blossoms yawning in the sundappled plain with wide spread calyx thrusting colorful ejaculation of stamen dust onto the furred abdomens of apis streaking the blue sky. Waving in the rain, swaying in the chinook wind, nodding drooping in the moonlight, whoring pollen. A vast wildflower field of fucking.