Red Centre – albie nothingness…not even possibility

October 20, 2025

Stabbed by ice and metronome tumour motion, I wandered down to your house. Fields of frizzy meat and black cones of bone stalags squeezing dry either side of your lopsided and splattered mansion. (Central pain is credible mentions of wise hold. Sensible to the creations of ghouls and maggots. No tenure, no rope source. Sit over the fire. Is it just nonsense? Myself I wonder. All our hours sold for a penny of death. ) Lock it all up now, lock it all up.

‘No, I feel a world approaching overhead. Like a tossed bottle, it smashes before it hits our heads. You know it. You can feel its pull. No doubt it will dislocate the woods, tree by tree, and aim them for further harm. If we move it will catch our creaks and set its sights.’

‘But you are right. It is merely a breeze spying through the cracks in your attic. I accept. I accept your offering of the turgid. Now, down to the matter at hand: your sanctity. Have we made all necessary motions? All our…’

‘It has not gone; it flexes blue matter above us. It has made a trick of holding sense at bay, and you knew it, you knew it all along. I can now hear it clench shut tight your bedroom door. All its dangling bells attached to a string of silver noise. And you poured me out an inch of your oldest wine? Is it that much of a special occasion? I suppose it is. Give me time to detect my courage, and I shall follow the noises of its dread attire. I shall meet your maker, and pray to my own.’

Lock it all up now, lock it all up.

(A hollow yet heavy silence as I sip his wine, recalling unnecessarily the time I burnt my lip on a hot morsel of fish, and how it stung to drink alcohol)

Then it is upon me, more a doorway of cold music than a man. I feel myself struggling, and all three of us, two men and one God, are crying out for very different reasons.

Later, after a decade of frozen notions and stealthy screaming torments, and things I cannot tell you, I take a stroll home.