Furtive Discursive Generation


I saw the us-not-them generation cornered by their own unquestioning natures and blind loose allegiance to atomic vegetable laws.

I tried to abide keeping myself as a pet in the strip club neon wonderland of all things virtual and horrendous.

I witnessed the dawn of each incalculable horizon a death show of twilight blossoms floating fluttering falling through cyclical madness.

I wrestled the living daylights from the rocks and the flotsam of dying possibilities left damp and unturned.

I read a dialogue of rigid counter thinkers comfortably coalesced into starving pieces pools and puddles of reluctant gumption.

I sung a squall of pitch and tar and glue for the bucket spun witch trials our surest smallest sense of victory’s fall.

I gave blood gladly in love of breadcrumb breakables a stitch hardened collection of lust filled insatiables.

I borrowed and stole and begged in the name of dutiful unhearded mechanical bullseyes.

I called out in silence but the dead black eternal only sent back an echo before my lips found place to part.

I crept off incredulous bound in want of storm and shelter and breath and bed and betterment.

I scraped back the furtive discursive in-valid murderer murmurer blessed the cursed from their filtered edges.

I met the hard rain rhythm of ugly execution set rigid a pulse and darkness in place of each empty room.

I shuffled many roads with many friends fading tomorrows wishbone secretions in backward uniform contact absurdity.

I killed the creatures in cosmic defiant decline giants of masterful anguish deceit constellation colours and connection.





     © Greg Fiddament 2020
Illustration: Rupert Loydell

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