A vision of dead desire. Concrete face and limbs, weathered and sullen like a tree. Or a sad welsh chapel. I’m a spider killer, and hater of automobiles. Animals are my friends, as are all the make-believe lovers of the world. Bearded silence and cocooned dreams. Eyes of wine and a stupid frown. Like a smile turned upside down. 

You can’t see my guts, for they grow in a lonely garden. They bloom beneath a boiling sun. All those buds of creation, swimming in mud and oil. War rages, planes crash. People die, babies cry first cries. The world turns, just like it always has. And so I stand in a garden, looking at nothing in particular. Thinking of things, that have no meaning.

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