Fragile
threads, a latter day Flying Dutchman complete with leather bound bible, a
black stab on a map leading to nowhere. No more colours, just grey muted tissues
of cold ravenous carbon paper chameleons. The story unfolds in fragments, talk
of turning over autumn leaves when there is nothing but pain lurking beneath
them and the sod.
Old Glasgow soldiers
with money lenders eyes, heavy eyes, heavy guns, broken triggers, they sit in
the dark hating who they are. Purple skies, flickering candles, rolling stones
still painting everything black. Torn curtains, softly lilting against broken
windows that embrace the cool rain as it cleanses the dirty streets.A gnarled lifetime of memory dust and ashes. Like the box it slips slowly into the hole. So much black, the copper smell of warm blood, broken whisky bottles and the morning sun still to rise above coal fire chimneys. The needle drops once more into the groove as the music coughs and wheezes even as I sit dying. Still redemption refuses me the cure.
