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One for the road

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O dweller of wuthering aeons and blood-encrusted steel, silhouette forged from smokeless fire: stand tall amidst the bustling writhering of sleek parasites carving evermore grim runes on the slopes of arid and rugose bosoms festooned by the comatose dregs of the world; horizons are cluttered, the wind directions in disarray like corpses hanging about galeblown gallows: steer clear from their bacchanales, take no heart of distant shorelines - the eye of the storm is one and ubiquitous, once the rage wavers and fades into oblivion.

Auburn

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daylight dims,  a ripe orange glow the oil lamp emits, logs and peat crackle in the fireplace,  ember sparks cheer,  multicolour garlands of leaves cradle in the numbing wind,  a single auburn leaf dances past the window,  a scuttling dream grafts melancholic notes to the mirror of my soul.

Manifest destiny

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wheels grind to a halt, seasons are in disarray, bodies shed skin and hair - chaos rages in the heart, as the ghost of the past eats its way in to plummet the soul into burning nighmares anchored in the false notion of its insignificance - but cowardice and compliance, slick parasites with a thousand goose stepping feet, have no hold on you, as you walk talk through undergrowth and creepers of these parced, sickening days - you push forward, primordial commandment ingrained in the matrix of your presence, ordained to reach out beyond the taints, the necrotic banner of futility and the hollow promises of verbal bacchanales - to reach out beyond the moon and the stars, where no definition holds sway nor bounds keep you down.

And night turns to day

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And night turns to day, day smothered in the fiery brass and billowed narcose of dusk, while night, starlit, clefted by the horn of the moon, suddenly smiles like a naieve child in glittering ecstasy, as nirvana struck its blue majesty's stem. Truly, now mauled by hound and wolf, the day as it was, slain, grows cold and fades to grey. Dumped into oblivion.

Ad alta!

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crumbling lichen, the sullen paleness of concrete, the impaled sea bursting into anemic spumes, while the galeblown cliffs of the wilted land stand their sepuchre of defiant contempt. nothing is strange to him, his path is marked with smiles of waxing mercy. about the windless night gads a surpressed scream, high in acidity this dysphoric brew, distilled in the primeval undergrowth of prideful avatars, where crouching spiders lurk with drooling fangs for shallow-boned preys. a procession of snapshots, frocked in corinthian-styled finery, withers behind the next episode of corrosive reverie; across the sweltering void monologues stifle in a ubiquitous gut-wrenching groan... oh, veteran shorn of brood and a heirloom, stand eye to eye to the cataract of glaring woes and rejoice: unbutton the illegible parchment of your masquerade, seek up the wuthering thermals of your unquenchable thirst, and rise!

Zonder titel (vooralsnog)

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't zachte mos, de aalwarige vaalheid van het beton, de gespietste zee wier schuimend bloed en smeekbedes de klippen van 't verslapen land onberoerd laten; niets is hem vreemd, steeds onthaald met een meewarrige glimlach in zijn doortocht. een stille schreeuw waart rond in onrust and wanhoop over de blinde nacht, waarin een dichtbevolkt oerwoud van schimmen en vleesgeworden hoogmoed schuilhoudt als een driftige spin kwijlend voor prooi. een processie van momentopnames, fraai getooid in korinthische opsmuk, verwelkt achter de zoveelste winding van het corrosief gemijmer; over een blakerende leegte ontspint het testament van zijn voldongen zuchten een holle monoloog. veteraan zonder nageslacht en zonder nalatenschap, oog in oog met het cataract van een eclatante treurnis: losgerukt van het eigen kadaver, volgt hij als een havik de thermiek van zijn unvermurwbare hunkering.

The old man and his key

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He was past any conceivable prime. Ensconced in his stuffy shack, which he never left, he lead the life of a hermit; through grimed windows, he enjoyed the seasonal masquerades, but without suffering the world's indiscretions. He felt for his old trusted inveigler in his pockets and found nothing but flakes of rust. The door shut forever, he contemplated death with a smile.