A topple of angles, vertigo of stop-start life, assailing sureness, slips falling into gin and tea.

The travellers will not make their boat, but must stay, swooned, at bandits’ mercy and skewing of Fate.

The Age of Distraction claims us all. Spin verticals until they are not, twist the old dial to stabilise horizontals. His morals are hunted, his meagre bearings endangered: his days moult to montage, a fake farrago of scenes.

Upon streaks and gleams, to noon glare in a chromium blur, in motorcycle silver he revs and glides, must save mother from drug peddlers, drug peddlers from gun runners, must save gun runners from terrorists, then slay gun runners to save sister, wound mother (now a drug peddler) to save children, become terrorist to slay a brother, old comrade turned loyal to a rival faction: ever he sets out, his issues unresolved, loyalties cruxed, in a fury of firearms, merely mires deeper his friends and foes in a spiritual conundrum, a cat’s cradle for conscience.

Seeking gaunt cliffs, gannet-taunted, the solution of cold spray from Baltic waves, the solace of matter, raw, before what was taught, resistant to thought, he, the hero, abandons the city, and skilled with miles, crosses scar and scald, bight and bluff, welcomes in batter and break, absence of groves, blessing of graves, signs of ending, places hard wayfarers broke, in mean blaze of sunset, bones separate from flesh, flash in fatal crush or graze, hands held up above icy tarn surface, face rotting below, aloof from our ties, awaits with the spring communal stir of mosquitoes, but has surrendered memory, the right to elegy, must settle his debt with gas, water and fire, and meet the fate of the lonely, having battled fierce harm and hunger and squall, futile at last, loyal to the faith that called him, fertile with stories – fertile with stories, but forgotten by all.

Sorry, what were you were saying?…


from the series construct (2012–present, ongoing)