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Scraps #1

"Caterpillar"
The mighty mighty caterpillar stretches on the leafy branch. A pushing-pulling creature from the ground.

"Rotton Iris" Mental mourning for the past life lost, one kitten hops onto the sunny rock. Comfortable, he encircles himself.

"Chopped Water"
Something's off.
Something's misplaced.
Something's gone.
Something's up.
Something's wrong.
Pulverized beating hearts splayed on the tile floor, something's nasty.
Will you see what can be done to this thing?
Soundless lacking footsteps go up my walls,
pitiful illusions
tear
into your skin.
And I,
am left,
with ALL of the responsibility. Willfully, dazed and confused.


The soft and clean sun climbs along my spine.
I am faced Westward, which permits the great big ball to bury itself within my spinal column.
A piss-soaked sky bleeds onto the horizon before noon. Walking, my feet are put like dinner plates onto the sand.
One pile of rubble is found up ahead. My eyes hurt. If it was worth anything, somebody wouldn't have thrown it away.
Maybe someone else would have got to it first anyhow. I throw a few pieces of scrap around from the heap of trash.
Several piles of trash are now found in the surrounding area. One of them has a chair on the apex of the heap.
I climb up. I sit in the chair.

At this sick painted world, a swirl of red introduces itself into the enviornment.
One could say it is a little understood or that it is known by too few to matter.
A jolly day by matter is sitting round the bend, while I, dilly-dallying, wait around.
Which, of course means about as much as a fly. Monumental passages bury the horizon which disappoints me.
This faux supplicant. Plastic green grass hills pull the earth down.
They hold it down and secure it. Why do they do this to it?

"The Machine"
A cheap packet of "Old Glory" sparklers sits in a puddle that was born and raised during a little piece of rain that occured a few hours ago. Some careless kid must have abandoned it back at rainbreak. It is not out of place as today is placed within the first half of July. My attention is caught elsewhere as I pace to stretch my time out. "That is" I say. "The mindless clock of death by attrition that will kill us all." The ground agrees. I nod grimly, pulled back. It demands loss, it demands becoming a different being. You are not you when plugged in. Amazingly, it does not bother me in the moment.