Plotting points on a map If point A’s where I’ve landed then point B’s where I wish I was at In between said points is a storm cloud forming the fore-written laws that enforce how the stories elapse Life in a matchbox Striking a fuse to a move on the chessboard Checkmate Like moths to a fresh flame Death’s gaze dawn heavy pours on the pawns of a fresh day Cause and effect like carcases fall from the force of the wreck like dominoes Pour from the time glass sandstorm particles cast over all in this mess Dawn of the vanguard template Tarmac scattered on a spectrum Following a set path goose-step Four laws numerous form from the manmade mandates channels of the death march who’s next? The periscope lines of these movements Back to the chalkboard spinning like computers End-game total grimace at the half rate cynicism parlay vision of the future Sunshine rays on the radar are sweeping an unholy sequel this evening Stream of the four points forming co-ordinates caught in the mortuary grease we’re secreting Breaths grow heavy Lung sacks weathered raw Set course pattern stretch death door teleport March of the crow’s feet nails in the coffin tops Caught in the annals like a Copperpot travelog In these days of the behemoth Great days fall foul to the storm cloud Short of the centre tapped like inner city switchboards bleeping – Towns lost miniature railroad patterns pass Grid patterns pass over life lost linear Kerouac cinema dead pan road films Carved from the bone brittle scars of the canon beams Waves of the future clash with the past These marvellous back flips deep in the omens Cast in a concrete cenotaph planting and penning raps parcelling venom sacks doper Until the heavens crack open and the paths get soaked by the bars like pins in a rat maze ascertain motion Gravitate lacerate acid rain potions In a place where the granite slate laminates walls to the floor lined lawless Cracks stay filled up tours of the back straight map face walls of the match face porous Grey grains in the daylight storm of the swansong Heads get smashed into pieces – swords in the chest plate animate jigsaw patterns fade gaps in a death door thesis All that has gone wrong thrives in the skirting Lines of the slipstream dive in the tide of the verminous tight wing turbulence hiding the truth in the clues of a fresh fire burning.