evilmacca

You pointed at satellites, calling them stars and defeated my response – turning to telecommunications, ones and zeros spread your voice, pollinating each mast they touch. I'd call your voice a flower by metaphor, just to hear your response. My attempts to distract you fall at the alabaster toe caps of your American originals. The irony of your choice in footwear and politics was not lost on me.

'Don't crush the vocal' a vanguard of religious silence follows, mantra's to fulfil the vow. Roman candles or desolate vessels they're all basically the same - navel gazing in striped t-shirts over ripped corduroy and fucked-up Chuck's. Ersatz zeitgeists fill their rendezvous; mix-tapes with names and hearts scratched over the Sony logo and that cheap feeling a car interior has, post coital. Youthful minds re-create Aronofsky's hip-hop editing Bruce Lee strikes hooks unclasp from eyes, McQueen glances up accelerated pupils dilate, Monroe walks over an air vent blood vessels become turgid, Dean checks himself in chrome h

While watching a bootleg video of some early 90's group, and later than expected I called for the first time. High and alone we both giggled, telling each other it would be a privilege to hug. Your voice warped with a smile, "We used to be so idealistic." That was our photography stage, when we would hang around the provincial capital taking photographs, and thinking they belonged on the inner sleeves of obscure early grunge debut albums. It was all black & white, definite lines, soft drugs only, plenty of light and always in places where we secretly hoped to be caught. A barn of rusted British cars, the brands long since defunct – the Hillma

We used to be so idealistic. That was in our photography stage, when we would hang around the provincial capital taking photographs. We thought, they belonged on the inner sleeves of obscure early grunge debut albums. Of course it was all black & white, definite lines, soft drugs only, plenty of light and always in places where we secretly hoped to be caught. A barn of rusted Hillman's and Morris' would have been the crowning picture, we never took it – we made out for ours in the seats thick with dust. I smoked, you sighed and then we'd play paper-scissors-stone while high. When we gave up smoking, you won every time. Withdrawal made us tak

Home for Christmas They come as cavalry and infantry, always adorned with love letters eyes of forlorn girls, distant echoes of home litter breast pockets with clichés "Home for Christmas". Archers evolve Armalites for arrows laser designators for lancers helibourne assaults replacing the charge of tired hooves, eventually they cease. Shaking hands pour mourning tea and for a few minutes canteens become content. Havoc and mayhem wrestle in soot and dirt filled dreams, the passing years move them on until they come to rest beneath regimented white.

With liquid linoleum for a cerebral lining every object becomes flawless, an aeroplane trailing cocaine across an ultramarine sunset scene, shrink wrapped brains told it isn't their fault that everything looks better with the contrast on high. Social X-rays fill rooms making out to make believe about spending a day languishing within lament, watching colours glissade away building palisade cell stain windows, wrapping daisy chain fingers around necks unadorned while everything looks better with the contrast on high.

Animated by broken down radiation hollow green men outflank Viet Cong ants, Charlie in the trees feeling his first girl lechery hangs across the gable end manifest destiny written in his wide eyes routing innocence in a sordid procession his advance towards victory. Short lived is serenity of domination cradling fear built on rotting wood, imagined menace beneath brooding water.

Amongst petals and feathers frozen in decaying memories words written in snow fade so quick. Beating butterfly wings till palms smudge silver, his watercolours can never return, molten swirls of what once gave lift and flight. A rose petal for a tomb, discarded beauty meets another freshly fallen form, body lying shattered shed as dead weight, Echoes cross memories of winter and spring, as I finally lay butterflies to rest.