I write these words simply to behold them. I publish solely to organise these fragments, these scattered thoughts. Fleeting moments stuffed in my pockets, bulging, spilling, suffocating under the weight of the very next. If I wish to have a wank, I wank. There’s nothing in between each moment. The guidelines imposed – chalky ghosts… harsh and silent. Yesterday only lives in the flickering relations of this very moment. We reminisce, muse, scratch and scribe. Drawings in the sand at our feet. The tribe passes knowledge. The children if our age toss gloating spears into the hearts of shadowy lovers. I’m looking for joy for the sake of joy. I’m looking for lust in action. I’m looking to crush the beauty of every sentence into tight little bricks, fighting the spillage of blossoming fauna that pushes the grate from my mind. Thoughts locked in concrete. Wandering pathways buried in damp ash. They’re sparkling in the hollow ground – glowing with new intent. There’s a secret underworld of memories most precious, tended in my absence by… by whom? Somebody who loves me? Little unfinished fragments floating like dust in sunlight choke the air. A flurry of anguish settles like iron snowflakes on my heart. Moment upon moment I’m passing joy to the undertaker in splintery little boxes. There’s a new god rising over the beheaded corpse of the last. This throne of stone soaked in blood. Hot red on cold stone and that hint of life that rises on the steam. Currents curling into the atmosphere breathed deep into the chambers of the next. We’re just passing through this place. Nothing can be touched without a dangerous thought – without a disassociation. I prefer the preservation of rebellion, when the spiritual books preach damage to none in the lumbering stagger of inhumanity. Tear out every page and burn it. Sour words mangled through time by pompous scribes no better than I.