All At Once



TV-splurge-set static.

All at once oils, waters…

Blurry green-eyes.

Sideways consumptive-vision.

Dawn’s volumes of flowers-we’ll-never-see-bloom.

This sudden invasion.

Hidden intention.


Impunity and immunity.

White-British bleeding-gutter call-backs.


Darkened demon.

Resurfacing lie.

A twisted-detective-plot, murdered by ill-reason.

Ill-truth, no proof and temptation.

Death of the presumptive tomorrow.

Forgotten like the things we owned that owed us quicker than we expected.

Beliefs taught to be believable in our suspension from great heights.

Trusting in the magic-faith-leap.

Bending in the formidable wind.

Oh great teacher never forget us better than today.

Living over tomorrow and yes today’s been bitten.

Foreign reign over the eyelid’s weary shame-strain.

Untamed uncultured unneeded intercepted.

Fidget of the toady-squirm-hole-thought-maker.

God awful leper-colonist tries to deny his involvement.

Call after call.

Repetition after harsh edited repetitious rendition.

Knowing not the difference forgotten.

Better not on.

Better trot on.

Brother’s chime of head skulls.

Block to block battered.

A smashed-him-if-I’d-only-got-in.

Keep on thinking.

It’ll keep you thin.

Physical probability.

Mercy folly.

Paranoia’s hilltop beckon.

Crow-call for the sake of loved one’s beheaded.

Dreaded incurable.


All ends unavailable.


Surge-splurge-broken-futile-feudal-faux-pas – wherever you are.

Sleep to car calm noises of sea battles waging through wiry sparks.

Howl winds raging.

Give us, give to us – having returned what’s taken.

The freedom comes I’m sure it does.

Not from us but from action.

In action.

Patient station.

Waiting on.

You to call it a day.

Boycott the bullshit.

Live your own lives.


Somewhere to shoulder the blame.

Train take me away.


It’s over.

I should’ve known.

And did. Indeed.


Knew all along.

The force of the hand now.

Never stopping.

Burdens the shoulder.

And the world gets colder in your cold steel-glassy-glare-gaze.

It’s never over.

You’re a liar.

Give us wolvers to conquer.

The dead night can sing its clangy-crude-pardons in the misty breeze.

For all I care.

And for all I cannot.

A division.

Them and them and them again.

We are not.

We are never.

We will have-had, and never-have-been-going-to-have-had… pretending.

We are worth what we want to consider.

So to call it so short so soon would disgrace it even further.


I am gone from this place but it stays all the same.

Mind and body-thoughts fight now for their calm claim.

Chains of each reinvention.

The bread from this table extinct.

To steal itself as a thief, denying all knowledge of the deed.

While the sleepers sleep sweetly in their warm fuzzy rains.

All at once…




Greg Fiddament
Illustration Nick Victor


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