no place to hide

signal frenzy tableau
a narrative fist

the travails of a proletarian
exquisitely composed of static fucks

he had none to give

breathing with slow regularity
descending into some deeper illusion

trips dark saturated depictions of netherscapes
underground in sooty color palettes

all stench and subterranean
rank and sweaty

a show fortune trigger finger
frozen in time

What I’m Reading:

Looking over the country with those sunken eyes as if the world out there had been altered or made suspect by what he’d seen of it elsewhere. As if he might never see it right again. Or worse did see it right at last. See it as it had always been, would forever be.

— Cormac McCarthy / All the Pretty Horses