A pocket-sized logbook for tiny and delicate things, please take it carefully....
to what end
a hurled grenade in retrograde
discarding broken objects
somewhere between dread and doom
lone save the wolves
a squeaky wheel
waiting for god-knows what
never as pretty as we was
down down down
goin' the whole hog
the future stares blankly
starved of sleep
restlessly and endlessly
only dust and rocks (and heartache)
no mercy to be had
run down like an old buggy
worn away by storms
this pit being what it is
re-fuelling of the tank
forgotten hours
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