Future.

Twisted rails,
flying sparks,
flying soil,
spilt whiskey strips the varnish from the bar,
smiles cause wrinkles.
Temporarily buried in the chaos of questions
all options eat either your flesh,
your bones, or your skin.

I cant shut myself in this chest
if I'm not sure if it's made of wood, or card.

Twisted rails,
an unexpected, completely foreseeable
collision with consciousness,
for the want of a solid conscience.

So you have a theory?
Unfounded and shallow,
like my empire! It is merely me.

Twisted rails,
what?
Room for improvement,
swing at me with
your circumcision;
a mole hill in a garden.
Occam's razor led me here
and it sends me away,
disproving itself, still correct.

Flying sparks
of friction, not attraction.
Of collision, not excitement.
Flying soil,
disturbed surface;
not from raising the dead
but from burying the living.
Spilt whiskey strips my skin
if i'm not careful.
And I'd rather age from smiling
because it is not me in the chest,
it is the body, and it needs to breathe!


Written 31/03/11,

Another one written on a train... 'the body' in the last line refers to the church.

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