somewhere where the trees are crying.

children sleep in graves and the swamp is growing 4 meters a day.

hidden under moss and mist is a beast from the beginning of recorded time.

he shuffles between the weeping trees and writes a new epitaph for each rock he passes. feasting on moon shine to a cicada soundtrack he wonders, ‘how much longer will it be’.

the children come out of their graves to dance around him, singing voodoo songs in his ears.

how much longer and 12 meters more.

the swamp comes up to meet him and pushes him through tree tears and black magic melodies. floating him out to sea under the paper moon and firefly stars.

‘away we go’ hums the beast.

far away he goes.

war fields

when you live in war fields it’s rare to see anyone with all four limbs intact. most of your friends are ghosts and even then: ghosts don’t make good friends. you hover around lamps to collect dinner moths and roll them up in old newspaper. late at night when your mouth is full of moth wings and cotton you hear the war bugles. underneath the floor boards are your fallout bedrooms and your battle cry bedtime stories. the next morning you go to the surgeons tent to look for a new shoe or if you are lucky a glove. you meet the new ghost of an old acquaintance and together you walk the war fields.