Death can't leave from her trap

Brittle bones snap at the slightest tweak, a drain of blood and the weak is where all the flavours reside. They consume the most, and as a result, should only expect for their necks to open up first in line. And what lines they do present to represent, only for the interests of the swollen numbs to clamp down.

Down, down, down, there by the water's foamy rabid excess. Carving up a quickness that incorporates a slow beat and a rhythm which lies in nations of the folding few. And of those folding few, minute scales of fish scratching at the sides. Tuna comes in all places and in many sizes. Here it happens to grow on branches underwater. Branches made of the gills and sacs of fish looking for a better life than the chunder to which they are accustom.

Life bubbles a squeak and the long draw from day into night burns at dusk. Life is making of songs, and of singing tunes that boil the ear drums, making them ooze of sweet nectar many a leech to feast upon.

Absence of fear makes many of the bare soles dirty with the rampant run of the grounds. Of finding the crossing chicken laying eggs in circular motion as the little cartons of sound circle round. Circling round the roundabout of course, there is no road to cross, no road to walk against, without the pimple and zit straight narrow lines know as the roundabout.

Stay awake for days and on each morning, deliver from the bowels a greeting to the messenger of death. Here lies the work of many nights of starvation. Feeding only on the stress and fear of the flickering light. Better lamps they make with the bones made from trees and not the one on either side of the knees.