back to the roots.

undertaking a new project. his name is chomper.


hymnals from lakefront houses; early winter.

four am holds a chill that creeps under skin, across the skinny planks of the deck, a chill to frighten the wood into a kind of cold that feels damp. three candles ooze wax into the grooves (a slow drip through the gaps) as a group of people sit under the weight of blankets and jackets in weather that feels almost like yuletide in london. how are the stars so bright?

a fog is edging towards the house, a slow crawl of wetness threading through browning weeds and the leaves of low-hanging trees, and soon the thin curls of cigarette smoke from those on the deck will spread, mingling into fog-smoke and enveloping the darkness of night into the grey feeling of another winter morning.
feels strange, doesn't it?

they breathe smoke like dragons at the same time, long exhales ending in sighs across the air. it's an agreement, kind of. the burning smell starts to linger in the creases of the blankets and the linings of their jackets while they sit, a reminder for later.

cheap thrills thinks a wisened house. an owl with talons that leave marks in the thick bark of trees as old as hills hoots, and agrees. the darkness is something they will grow tired of.


and our children never lie, and no matter how we try, we are not afraid to die.

you traded your eyes for guns and a half-hearted soul; corruption becomes you, you know. oh, yes, with your head held high you're a sight to see, all right.
your fingers lost me in the winter. not that you'd know that, your arms pointed towards deserts and the warmth death settles in the recesses of your belly.
it's only now that you remember, a small smile on the edges of your mind and a little broken wave you stuck in your back pocket, among coins and the sand from windy beaches.
see, that's me, and you want all that back now; your eyes haphazard in their old sockets.

but ahaha, it's over. i hope your heart bleeds.


and the girls are getting sick off snorting coke up in the bathroom.

some thoughts.

music constricts those thin chords of our throat, colourful
our crooked eyes spill and wet the ground with what doesn't like to hide, while quietly
the moon clouds over; we wonder about almost-forgotten werewolves and when we are old, greying with age and our bones ache beneath our skin, we will look back across a wide expanse of years at it.
we will think about echoing chimes and the patterns of great and ancient forests, weathered
we walk alone along rows of white picket fences, the piercing darkness a comfort for tiny bats; we hope, too desperately, that things might work out and we will rock comfortably in our chair well after seventy years have passed us by.