The hobbyist and the drillbit

 On that road the hobbyist used a screw driver to pull the circular drillbit from the tarmac.
He held it up and marvelled at it, the teeth in it, how the steel shimmered in the neverlight.
He spoke about how he would add it to his personal collection.
The grey dull road was deaf to his words and just lay there soaking up tame neverlight.

Somewhere not far a brook inhabited a ditch.
Like a child does a playground.
For all of it's insistance it couldn't reach the roadside.
The overgrown couchgrass waved to the tarmac where the hobbyist stood bewildered with the drillbit.

The tarmac was blind, the hobbyist was stuck in time, neither here in this reality, nor in the other.
Only partially aware of the tides of air coming in from the pastures and forests.
He threw the drillbit in the air, the way a child might a ball.
The thing spun as if on command, a disco ball of mesmerizining cutting power.

A thousand truck carcasses littered the end of the road.
Somehow how more useful now as rotten metal soaking in the neverlight.
Ever in prayer facing the hobbyist looking approval, dead inside.
A realm beyond a realm, a blessing misunderstood.

I had to leave my country

 I was born in a garage.
 far over the hill,
 where small streams
 and tree ferns bunched and danced together in the slow breeze

  I made my way over that hill,
down toward the small city,
where I was to live.
There I was reborn into mundane village life.

 With wood and tools and saws,
 hammers and boredom and nails and concrete.
 I walked out of the garage and into a car.
 I painted the car many colors.

 Then became part of the car.
 I opened the car door.
 I walked freely on the footpath,
 where people could see me/

 Where people could analyze me.
 Where people could see the clothes I was wearing,
 the words that I was speaking,
 the gestures that I was making.

 The body language that I couldn't hide.
They judged me and they said all that they could say about who I was.
 
Then I walked into a school,
 and I found myself learning.
Then I walked out of the school and into a job,
 and I found myself working.

Then I walked into a relationship and found myself fucking.
Then I walked out of a relationship and found myself alone.
Then I sought more and more and more and more,
Until I had to leave my country...

The abandoned feasts

We needed the communist to get in
We grabbed Alex he looked communist
go to the front of the line
we need to eat

But the drama queen pushed in
everything went horribly wrong
We lost the privileges we were about to have
As the drama queen could only convince

He didn't look the part and noone bought his appearance
People need their appearances
And so our cards didn't work at the booth
and we had to barter for our food

Turkey invaded the caucases again
As Russia began to implode
They were always ambitious
hyper optimistic

As we traveled down the black sea into their territory
we saw the abandoned feasts locals had left out for the liberators
We too would have stopped and eaten
but God had given the land ample rain as if rewarding the Turks

And so the food was going bad quickly
So we went back to debating who among us looked like a real communist
and if that would really have made a difference in the food line
I myself had stolen the menu, dreaming is better than nothing

Where was the small me

 The big me went in search of the small me,
over those rolling hills and strange valleys.
Until the big me recognized itself in the smallest insect.
Picked it up and carried it home.

The insect was hyperactive,
so restless it wouldn't be still.
The big me tried it's best to make the insect calm.
They slowly began to bond and exchange noises,

Which turned to personal words,
which formed conversations.
Then they were able to become something,
lost out there in the rolling hills together.

Sunset sorcery

 What am I to do with a world like this?
What are these new powers I never asked for?
I see the forbidden vein the blavatsky myths.
I see the sunset, alas where is the dawn?

Those in darkness strive toward remnants of light.
I'd tell you to go back, because it just burns!
I am wrapped in the sky of the eternal sunset
The gates of day's end

The dark sun and it's shrill haunting rays
It's radiation pouring through me
Until I affect it's flow
What vessel am I?

Red belt the one below white

 Nineteen ninety eight.

Crimson floor, new age of despair.

Curtains long red too with white inner sleeves.

It all spelled sorcery.

For it echoed coincidently.

The exact tones of the oncoming sunset.

As we punched the air,

pretended we could tell the future.

And I ... Simon Bernard Elliott.

Just day dreamed.

Until a fist put me down.

AND I BLED FUCKING CRIMSON.

On the crimson floor.

up the crimson curtains.

The seriousness peeling off like a face mask.

At first the muffled howling of laughter.

Then it died down to the few women's attempts at pity.

Carrying me off to wash the blood off me.

Day dream over, now life's full of Simon you need to be more careful.

But it wasn't over, the images just kept coming.

From the strange sunset folding the horizon.

Violence is just another guaranteed piece of this reality.

Must i ready my fists and my defence?

Or will I be bleeding like a punk over some basin?

Ask

 Without curiosity you curl up and die in the state or place you failed to ask was safe.
The answers are dressed and packaged on the shelf where noone's looking.
Without a why how are you going to understand the next layer?
Or didn't you think it went that deep?

Glad to know you never had questions about anything I could respond to.
What an interaction when all we need is friviolity, all we need is silent nods.
Life is effort and we are going to sweat!
Don't dare ask, or break your personal rule as the spins it's friction giddy.

What a time to engage in wanting to know.
So what? So I can form an opinion.
I'll just ask you, when?
When i get the courage.