SOUL MURDER

Nerves are taught, like a string bow. There is nausea in the air, along with the subtle. Those angels that you breath on, they've given up on you, past redemption, past avoiding the claw. The moons here are golden and fragile. They slide across skies that burn dark and bitter. Moist lips mumble into that bitterness, feed on it...give it a half life of its own. Dark hooded eyes look out lazily, languidly at the surface textures of worlds. There is a darkness within walls that blends through to the touch, they are cold and rippled...but they are as old as friends. There is a movement, always movement...walking along pavements, sitting on beds, combing our hair. We are conveyors of connection when there never is one, we are the isolated when surrounded by everything. We are the monkey in the tree, we are the ape on the ground, we are the astronaut cast adrift, we are god in the eye...there's always a god in the eye. I saw a rainbow the other day, it cast a shadow...do they do that? Perhaps it was something else...something shiny and new, something spanning the sky, some internal illusion, like letters through the post. The world spins and we spin with it, the world hums and we hum with it, the world comes to its end...and so do we. Angels flutter past my ear, nausea is in the air. There is a sigh that rises from deep in my belly. It rises up, through my lungs, floods into my throat, fills my mouth. But my lips are clamped shut and my jaw is set tight. Where's it going to go? It turns tail, heads back to my belly and sets itself a throne, king of the undisclosed sigh. Bellies are full of sighs, it's the only organ that really speaks for us. It churns bitterly and speaks for us.