“I killed them all!” laughed Father Time to Mother Nature.


Lying behind these lack lustre, whimsical if it so pleases you, eyes of mine. Dread portal’s to this, my very soul.

A hellish black beast stirs.

Raising its foul head, it is the breath of a corpse that reaches forth like a snare. Horrid, pungent, unrelenting. Washing over you, me. Something, as vile as a torrent of midden, escaping a cart filled with the dead.

It is the beast of time. More accurately, the beast of time squandered. A beast for the soul left to rot in the remnants of self. My self.

Oh damned malignant thing you are, stirring, awakening…………….beckoning?

 “’tis you that is I, I that is you. You are the movement of my reflection. You, the silent scream you never made. Your own personal ‘bump’ in the night.” It serenades in the voice of a plague.

Perplexity folds me into the very wings saved purely for the damned. My skin crawls at its touch, terror fills me. My left sock dampens of its own accord. Ragged clawed hands tear me from my wing wrapped horrors, reefing my screaming being into a foul place. A place far more distended and vile than this, my temporary purgatory, could ever have been. Via those self same dread portals, I note it is my own hand that draws me from that very place, into to this inescapable and rancid pit. My own hand holding me, securing me, dragging me against my might and will.


“This ghastly beast, the colour of corrupted souls.”  Soars from my corrupted soul, and proceeds to laugh manicly.


At me?


“What have I done?” I scream. My head is bowed, and I sob and weep and despair at my own futility.


“Why, you have done nothing. That is the point. Can you, master time waster, squanderer of hours, days, weeks……………….lives? Not see that?”


“’tis not the lack of effective circulating blood flow killing you. Killing me. It is spirit, and time. The very same that both you, and of course I, waste. So master time waster, welcome to this my final taunt. A taunt ever so taut.”


My whimpering stops as though a button has been pressed. My neck jerks and lengthens. The dance, made by my treacherous feet without my prior consent, is a short lived jig. The most famous of all jigs. A jig perfected at Tyburn, a reel known to all, but now, only to one. Nay, two. The beast of time, and I.

This final dance, my last waltz. The only hemp inspired dance to be performed beneath a beam of mother’s ramshackle garden shed, is more than a dance. It is my dance.

My final dance, a dance just for one. No longer two.




Click the picture at the top, or you too shall feel the long drop, with the short stop. Apt is its very best description.




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