the dead, ill-spoken of

sunshine prescription ran out, no refills. clouds corner tearducts, and a shadow shivers under noon skies, white walls gleam violent. as the crow flies with broken wings across a distance so great he falls. the sound of chattering teeth overpowers the jet engine drone above.

"you are a vapour trail...in a deep blue sky"

sings a distant radio from a car passing by on the freeway. a sharp buzz like that of an angry wasp follows the sad song.

now all is quiet.

a risen sun behind clouds of ash sulks. rainfall beats the earth. before nightfall, an alien light, grief-stricken, tears the paper sky; burns briefly with a brimming heart. the dead, ill-spoken of, now poison the living from pissed-on graves.

the empty playground neurons fire and spark but only invite hedonistic shadows and a moon covered in craters of malice when the dust is not swept.

this is a sphere, waking but never really conscious; an engine neglected, ill-maintained, gathering rust from disuse. junkyard life yields casket-lined results. a spectre is burned in effigy under a pile of old tires. thick charcoal smoke and the miasma of burning rubber. all in a day's work for the mechanic, whose face wears a perpetual layer of grease and a vile grin.