this landscape is a bitch lover

The landscape outside is a bitch lover. Here, alone, I sit at a rustic computer with a screen moments from giving out completely. Peering out a window stained yellow from age and years of cigarette smoke. The walls smell of grease, oil and death. This is my refuge. My sanctuary. The front screen door refuses to stay shut. Instead it bangs violently against the wall trying without surcease to jump its hinges. Looking around, taking a deep tug off my last cigarette, I realize what a fire hazard my place has become. Paper is a rare commodity these days but I trade a man in town for it for what I tell him is clean water. Crumpled pieces lay strewn across the floor. Abandoned creativity. Any and all hope has been forced from our being. The collective strive to achieve, to create, to procreate, to live, has been raped from our bodies.

It’s raining again. It’s almost as if the weather knows the bombs were dropped. The final push for complete and utter control punctuated and announced with the final blast from on high. God has left the building. There is only us and them. My keystrokes accompany the muffled staccato of an urban gunfight miles distant. It’s beginning to grow closer. I pray they choose to look over my sad little shack. This is what I’ve become. A lone tiger without the will to fight. The resistance is for the hale, the young, the sexy. Let them die for whatever it is they choose to die for. My weapon of choice is the word and the words my ammunition. This is what I’ve become.

Madly in love or lovingly mad. I’ve forgotten the difference. A man has only his innermost thoughts these days. Introspection and disgust with what that delving reveals. The world around me has gone crazy. Women and children, the elderly and infirm. They die for a cause. The young formulate plans of counterattack to regain what sanity is left of this country once the battle is won. Or lost. Everything around my refuge, my sanctuary, burns out of control and all I can think of is lovers lost. Hand in hand in apoclyptica. What I wouldn’t do for a women’s touch right now. I have everything and nothing.


The fight has grown closer. They tell us resistance is futile. They only wish to protect us from ourselves. Outside the raid horn screams, echoing off the rocky walls here on the outskirts of town. Curfew for all except those that choose to die. Startled by a loud bang behind me I turn to find the door has finally jumped its hinges.

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