kiteing you

grab a kite by its tail and follow it until it goes so high you cannot let go without breaking your back and become a paralysed ball of chewed gum left on the floor tough and mangy and bitter and old and alone until you get swept up by the cleaning staff and dumped in the bin only able to just peek the kite as it flies away
ribbons trailing behind
remember the feeling of rope burn between your hands as you hold on
but never come to that point because you hold on tight and make sure to open your eyes even if its windy and makes you sore even if it is bumpy and you keep losing grip with one hand and then another and readjusting and finding how to support yourself without ripping free
(when you lose one hand let it rest for a while and wave loose in the wind)

The man mountain

Tomorrow you will pretend you are dead
and all your skin is gone
it has left
you

all
you have
now is the flesh underneath and
it hurts
so much
that you cry
but you
can’t
cry

your eyes are full of sand and
it pours out around your head in sharp dunes
and they wash over your face as
you cry and cry these empty deserts
until you can’t cry any more but it is too late
and you are trapped under the sand (there is sunshine
outside, there is sunshine) and it bakes you
bakes you into a chrysalistic mountain range





the sand is a perfect fit
it slides into the grooves of your
muscles and your
ears and your
tongue

and you
rise

from your mountain
of dry tears

and you are more rock
than man

as you emerge from the
falling foothills

hardened against the wind
forever and solid
man

Old story new feet

Walking in the new land in old footprints in old footprints
alone

or

together
it's all the same

and step in the holes that come at regular intervals
and never see the footprints

they are so old that they're part of the scenery now

Step in down to the shin, bruise yourself on the way out
Trip on an old metaphor and bleed under the skin

always tripping and wandering
sometimes
in a forwardly direction
sometimes
not



You always come back
They always do

because


because you have nowhere else to go and the way back is dark

the way forwards is dark
but you don't know where it ends



follow those holes and get an ending or bust
you haven't got anywhere else to go

on this worn out path

this escalator of the gods

at the top of the metaphor is a reason, where everyone is shiny and you have lovely teeth

Itzl, the man

Breaking away from the group, Itzl rode out. Head low to the horse as he cut against the wind, carried by a Golden Arrow towards the herd. Holding on with the lightest of touches, the most subtle of movements he stood in his saddle, eyes closed against the fierce air. All he could feel was the rush of wind and the rhythmic, practised pulsing of his mount beneath him, something more comforting than his mother’s voice, more familiar than his own heartbeat; these moments were all he lived for, all he was bred for. The pain of releasing the moment dragged his spirit low as he chocked back the feeling; it was necessary to let go of the Passion that drove him or else he might never come out again. He would take the first kill today and claim the Redmans share, as was his right, but it was the chase that fuelled him.