Feel the grime on it all – the production feels feral. We split pea pods and throw away the peas so we can suck the skin off of the pods. We ascertain that this is dessert bread at the brink of the picnic and I am so sorry that I didn’t go over the label. After having climbed numerous hills, one shoots up and grabs me like the hand in a b movie horror after the credits. We can’t have a happy ending now can we.
Gone are the days when collecting insight afforded us anything, except for the hospitality of the well and another grain of darkness slopped in a pocket. Nietzsche did warn us not to stare. We write another wrought requiem and jump. After all, everything is hopscotch in retrospect.
About the author
Ben Armstrong is based in the Black Country, UK. He is an alumnus of David Morley’s Warwick Writing Programme and has been featured in a variety of online journals and zines. His first collection, Perennial, was published by Knives, Forks and Spoons Press in 2019.
nothing in the rulebook 