Simon

A Poem by Soil Creep

A night

It looks as if we've hit our limits this time, tires spun out of yarn rolling towards that inevitable oblivion doomsayers live for.

I can't help but

Trace out this experience of toeing the divides of consciousness.

Gliding between throes of texture and formlessness, the shimmer in those glassy moon-eyes that seem to trespass the most blocked of thoughts, the things best left unsaid as we might term them. I am piling up the significance and wrapping it up in a bandanna. A lost highway and lost souls perhaps,

it's gone out.

Sometimes it's best to let go.

Embrace that effervescent reminder of mortality careening off towards

inevitable oblivion. What does it really say about this experience that blocks and muck can dominate while wordlessness comes only in dilapidated yarn rolling, the bum is certainly wiser than the businesser in the universal play of events. To search a moonlit civilization for primitive answers,

it becomes all too apparent, all too clear that it really is just

wandering, Moonlit under curious stars.

I can almost touch these fleeting tones scattered across the horizon.

shapes of uncertainty shifting about the night sky.

a detachment from any base sense of recklessness

I have begun to doubt the facets of my body and their contextual bearings on reality. Questions form from the bitter faucets between my plastered ears escaping cleanly, terrified of what rational beings can do, what they are capable of. Spending many days at the crux of this expanding mantlepiece fanning changes in uncertainty, listless and embroidered. I am starting to interrogate fundamental humanity, beat-less, exiting cracked ridges of flesh and saliva.

I pull out.

The estranged night makes lambent the pondering rabbit amongst lurking telephone wire. I crawl out from the distraught underbelly of scarred vehicle beneath greasy machinery. I cannot confide to a scurrying suspicion, only examine the repercussions of his gassy scream at the constellations from the moonlit sky.

He writhes at my touch. His deflated crying scuffs the wheels of the two-ton goliath. Tears flood from this detached animal, damaged motor oil seeps into his fur. Dying under the hood of my car a glassy eyed rabbit exacerbating his tale. I look into his glassy eyes, there is no reeling back, no attempt to hide his skinning expression slinking into the shattered figure before him. His final memory wrapped in a turgid smile as damaged motor oil eats away his flattened thighs.