mad tales - hilary

She was spiked in the cool night Hilary, crawling from beneath the cock-roached nightmare of a passing wave that summoned her, and us, to a moment of destiny. Bicycle wheeled spinning and mop up the blood from the opposite side of the road where he stands ... crying. He called, she died.

Pock-sopped white and trembling, forever frozen. Is she me, is she you?

Sometime visitor to this stream.

She calls out repeatedly during the night, ferried here and there by the stranded dream in which she is forever caught. The witness passes by the side of the road calling away ....

Each time she comes to stand beside me I am frozen and screaming. Draw breathe into my lungs as she crosses.  Coming to life in the stream of traffic as the image of Hilary steps out into the dusty summer day to another hit.

The carney caller and bright light shine of another.

Fallen man ...

Polaroid dream

Their feckless razors cut mean red slits through the night. We sleep so restlessly, tossing and turning as the door knocks time and time again.  Somewhere a disconnected telephone rings and we pick up the receiver to hear the voice of the late General George Armstrong call.  He chants the number 6 …

… and the nightmare 

pads

into

the

room

dressed

in

the

thin-veined

moebius loop

of

mr

wolf

Lycanthrope scratchings, rabid at the door with the voice of General George repeating his chant in time to the background.  Some sweet smelling flowers of romance to lay his grave by ...

number 6

number 6

...