Transitions

Smiling balloons towering over the long threads of public transport on the caterpillar’s tiny hairs so delicate as the morning sun sets at last behind the mountains that live without carrying the extra weight so carefree feeding on the clear water drops on my hands under the zymotic hollow moon so cold and deep like the images that spring to mind when someone crosses the careful lines drawn by you on the tiger’s eye with earthly paint that smells so subtle and familiar when I close my eyes and lazy creeks and sounds of the night creatures become so concentrated and condensed that you could probably cut them with a butter knife dipped into a small lake of salty sadness with aminolevulinic acid hovering above it like a big hungry bird looking for you at any point in time without food and without sleep in never-ending spirals of the sunflowers and deoxyribonucleic acid both in your space in a bottle of fine spirits smelling subtly of that earth coming back every time when the eyelashes clash in a soft whisper coming out of nothing in the vacuum air around me letting in the diet coke of evil through the membranes where nothing is quite simple enough to comprehend with a closed eye and a closed ear to the butterflies gently flapping around at random following all the algorithms without the obex of not knowing the next step and nothing is there to obfuscate the weightless sounds of copper drops falling inevitably like a water torture trap devised so carefully and with a sole purpose to push me from the yellow steps of angry fingers clutching in mid air for the soul crying Godspeed travellers of darkness hiding in the coldest shadows of the moon before they make their move digging into soft white flesh with rusty spears that taste of nothing after night has passed by in the London underground where all things in time come to an end.