The Plotter

The next steps are crucial. Be sure.

Over and over again the plot thickens and falls apart. Try and try again with variations and adjustment. See it all. Visualise. Every version a new idea. Every idea a worthwhile experiment. Perhaps some things should be only once, only one try to get it right.

Just below the wrist, a burn on metal. Distracts. Like the pumping pressure on the ears. Rhythmic thumps into the brain. It all alters the control. The sure thing. A burn below the wrist. A constant heat. Something. Another try.

The upper chest tight with anticipation. Going over the scenarios now. That makes it real, going over the scenarios. That tightens the bronchus and raises the blood pressure. Anticipation.

But when it is a sure thing. A 100%, you know. A full look at it.

And the mind wanders. This time around, the beat pushes through a thinker hanging. The light is pushed out into thin strips. As new textures run across the body infinite. This is a persistent moment. A constant and changing place. Every type an evolution of the last. Until it fizzles out into embers, burnt the longest but burnt all the same. Well used, they’d say. Not wasted, not at all.

Sure, is this not it?

On My Head

brothers and sisters,
Rebuild your life,
We’re all drug takers,
That’s the sermon tonight.

Long straight roads through haze of rain,
Shot up behind six wheelers, returning to the same place they came from, the return journey.

I return also down familiar roads in search of a new direction. I suggest new paths, I suggest chances to take and gambles to be made. I suggest what I would do.

Then I realise I would do a lot of things differently from the rest. All ideas in my mind.

But it was good to think of those times again.