by Luke Otley
I sit in the same room with rabbit hay strewn round – ale in hand. Shit – many years, n many beers too, much nonsense spouted n more to come. These hops give life to some quiet part of a dream inaccessible otherwise buried under dry (wine) humour and foul cynicism. A nudging, feeble recollection of forgotten quotings, grumbled – downcast already defeated eyes lunar slit – unearthed by proof and burning windpipes.
The confidence is gone hours hence, replaced by an unsettling feeling in the gut and a soul that is raw to the touch. Consider the subtleness of the red sea, as you tinker your tea. Morning. Window. Rain.
Consider a snail crushed, something as common as war.