Picking at Old Sutures

I wish to die by the heart-ache and the thousand natural shards

of a harmless brick building, blown to bits by an explosion

set off by just one person, by just one group, by just one idea.


A belief so strong that physical casualties are needed.

Where Me, You, and Everyone We Know die.

Where Me, You and Dupree need feel every one of those natural shocks.


‘We kid ourselves that there’s future in the fucking, but there is no fucking future.’


I had a dream where I read your letters, bound together by a book, thick horizontal lines rulered out by heavy graphite.

I can’t recall your penmanship, or even what you wrote.


‘By your hand is the only end I foresee.’


The End.





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