You are coming.

Normalize - nah don't bother

Rain sprays in from under wheels; bouncing off silver roads. Mists trailing, passing cars in disrupted tribute. Trees sink into the night as the darkness reaches out to catch them and pull them into the background. The dull navy blue sky with its powdered texture lies across my view: a backdrop to the night itself. Little roman candles pave the motorway back to a warm bed. Little fires hang in the night; their florescent fires; orange glitter scattered in space and time. Hollow echoes announce the coming of the mysterious night ahead. Blocks of stone and light. Stand strict and defiant cold giants faces silhouetted in the black unknown.


Silent bus. Ambient night. Lights trail across the seat in front of me creating 77 million paintings each different and wonderfully amazing. The bus is pitch dark and I feel as if I am alone in space and caught outside of time. The rain is coming. Pitter pitter pitter patter pitter. Rivers run down my window and I stare pervertedily into the peepshow of this world that lies on my eyes. Matchbox monsters in grays and blacks and white defy the night. Puddles sing and dance out in silent protest. The red and yellow neon lights of the approaching city; a city a metropolis begin to pulse with a faded life; a light. A mist a fog sits on its shoulders to stare at the people below. The Rain comes on and on, the sky is getting dry; it drips a melancholy vomit. The window is melting. The blue neon lights are coming. Red Stars yellow M’s. The corporate ogres are coming.


The lights are green now. Gray and yellow snakes 10 feet tall and 100 feet long, and they answer to name lui. They slide through the city night bored and sad: they wear these expressions on their faces. Looking for Bluebell. Looking for smith in the field of faces and students of that person I used to know. I used to love. Yellow lines crisscross the face of the earth. As canals become bloated and cranky; don’t pout Gerry: the black house Inn is coming.

Giant blood red crosses pregnant with night but sparkle, with scarlet hearts on the apex and arms stand in the dark, and crawl on the approaching cityscape. A graveyard of giant bone crosses litter the city; ignored by the night – graves of violet kings, bleached and smooth. Dilly. The Ocean rains continue to fall down, ever falling down.

I open my eyes, and I’m still on the bus, surrounded by people – I think we’re nearly home. Two Russian girls are chatting behind me, their conversation drifts over me. "Patches" “black thorns” “Yes you do" " I get for you”.

I must have dosed off. I turned around slowly, confused to find they are talking to me. Licking their lips and staring through my eyes: I stare at them. Confusion and anxiety pierce my head and pierce my head and pierce my head. They just look. A happy confusion hangs on their hard faces. In the divide between the seats we sit silent: caught, entangled in a lost moment.


“you are coming”