I don't know what this is, but have a glance

quincyk

Crows. Over 600 of them. Black as death itself, swaying through the plumes pillowing from nowhere, seemingly. This is the ends of the earth, or so it seems. A complete and utter feeling of nothingness. Despair isn't the right term to use, but it's not the worst either. I'm standing and shuffling, I'm sitting and shaking. Motes of dust lie in dead heaps, where once stood holders of dreams. Now, nothing. Every dream once dreamt. Every act of heroism. Every young couple in love. Acts of good-will. Moments once cherished. First-time-buys. Courage. Selfishness. War. Peace. Totality. Science. God. Life. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. I'm here, and I'm sitting, and I'm shuffling, and I'm standing and shuffling, and I'm sitting. There may be tears, but right now, I can't even bare to try and realise. I'm sitting here and I'm training myself not to care, to remember that all I can remember is that I remember nothing.

Time. Travel. Wonderment. Proposals. Death. Communication. medicine. Literature- Gone. Gone. Gone....without a trace, without a sign, without a murmur or the decency to say goodbye. I'm sitting. 400 more crows join. Swarming. Blotches of ink-death-ink spurting out from the script-writer above. Nothing. Gone. Standing now again. Not shuffling, not shaking. Trembling.
I walk a few yards, secured under the weight of watchful eyes. This is me. This is now. A smoking ember in a time where fire has ceased to exist. An image of an embryo lost in an interlude where humanity has failed to keep it's hand aloft. Ink lines, lazily drooling down the vastness above. I'd attempt to pinpoint my position to you, but north has failed with south, and east and west have joined them. Anything that's lost from memory is better forgotten. It's meant to be. I keep telling myself this. I'm looking at the sky. I'm walking. Ink everywhere. Better forgotten.......


The Buildings are housing no one, stores displaying nothing, window frontages lay dust-strewn. This is forever. Well, for the time being, at the very least. They're swooping. They're not landing, but the ground is theirs. They own it. I'm trespassing. But I'm nothing, so it lies idle. Desperation. Oblivion. Pensions. Tax. First-kisses. Last-goodbyes. Religion. Money. Family. Employment. Cancer. Anything lost is better forgotten. For miles outstretched, a permanent gray blights the vast banks and plains descending past the borders of sight. This is the permanent Monday morning. This is hang-over town. Lost. Crazed. Lost. This is forever. I sit on a curb and count the familiarities recognisable. Motes of dust. A child's stabilizer lies a few hundred yards down the road. Half on the pavement, half on the road itself. Upturned. One wheel missing. One owner missing. Forever. Debris lies there. Formed in sporadic gatherings, incessant in number, there because it is now meant to be.


My fingers tremble. To the east side of the city, where plains and plains and plains of poppy fields once shimmered, smoke rises high. This is the work of god on drugs. This is every scientific experiment gone wrong- taken too far. Crusted blood has formed beneath my finger-nails. It's not mine. All of this isn't mine. It used to be, but now I don't even recognise the smell. So I walk. miles and miles. further into the dust, further out of my mind. Dreams and nightmares are one and the same. This is how Joe Soap will feel when ****ing lady porn supreme. Steven Hawking running through a field of Marigolds. Co-existing in their own niche of surrealism. Reality in space.

quincyk

busted flush

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