New piece, I'm not sure on it, it's really unfocused and just crazy. In the beginning it was intended to be a satire on the pointless republican "war on drugs" but developed into a howling wolf of a piece. It just stands for so many things now. Gothic? Yeah, it is. Howl.

1. Is it too confusing?

2. It seems too poetic to be prose, does it make sense, IE, can you read it?

3. I have a few titles in mind, if one hits you, tell me it.

4. Should I scrap the piece?

5. Should I post more of my works on this board, I stopped a while ago.

Thanks. Btw, the poetic quotes such as "Sunlight on a broken column" are purposeful and are not plagerisms, my initial thought of a title after I expanded this piece was "The waste land" as a homage to Ts Eliot, but I don't rate the piece. Lay it down on me mofos.

Titleless.

I’ll tell you a story, as I journeyed to this place of stillness and of leaves, of rivers and trees, of tranquility. I had to walk through a desert, a vast and sandy land of straw and faded statues that stood like broken lighthouses of civilization. Where the maw of rocks feed on the ships of cities that slump in the sand. Where the survivors drown in time. Humanities fallen into the rot, cities submerged in the dunes. As I strode and walked through this wasteland, this grail of death, I saw a monument, I saw a man, I saw a man upon a hill, oh he was a titan of a man upon that hill. A form that cut the air, whose voice was like thunder and whose gaze was like fire. This man upon hill, this God, this lord of the desert looked unto me and looked away and I walked on. But as I turned around I saw his works. I saw his purpose.

He would make death Eden. Ohhh, to fall asleep in his embrace and scream and scream until I can scream no more. Paradise eternal.

So imagine if you Can. A lonely figure of a man, in a desert. Screaming, numb, an angry man and letting his anger out on the sand and earth below him.

The sand, that supports, that disintegrates, that material basis he stood on. For else was there for him to destroy.

Apart from himself.

An invisible city upon a hill. Thump, thump, thump, blow after blow, he rains down hit after hit on the dry sandy surface. Thud, thud, thud like the internals of an engine, and the more he hits it the more the sand flies and he's filled with rage blinding himself with sand and rage. Choking on blood. Deaf, dumb, blind, feeling in the darkness for something to destroy. Bang, bang, bang and the sand flying everywhere now, he's red, he's exhausted but he's beating the hell out of this desert for being there, for daring to be there, for daring to stand there and not be destroyed, not atomize at his very command. For he is man, he is lord, and when he commands things obey. They obey, Until this day, the desert is still, it does move or fade away, so he rages. This God, this Titan rages.

“Die, die, die” these words are the only words he knows, the only emotion he shows, hatred. His shouts reach a limit then trail off and then he stops, to marvel at his works, he is the destroyer of cities, the ruined, the tombs and catacombs are his choirs, each open grave a mouth to sing his praises. A tongue in tongue-less skull. This desert is of his own creation, he has destroyed the world, the human works, now left, on this burial mound, this hill, the monument everlasting, he screams and as he screams he rages, the desert stands, destruction cannot be destroyed, the wasteland cannot waste itself.

He cannot touch the void.

So he stops and stares at his work. As a painter marvels at his creation. Panting and coughing in the hot boiling sun, hot enough to make the blood evaporate, much shed on the stainless surface. The sky a metal blue, sterile metal blue as if God had scraped off everything that had ever traveled the horizon and everything that ever will, no memory, no form, no shadow of what has been, just the pounding now, just the raging now, just muscles in the darkness, a naked ape, constricting finding something to make bleed.

Bleakness, a beautiful desolation of a scene. A wolf biting down on a virgins leg. Blissful decimation. The figure of him, now a heaving god of a man, power over the elements, what power has mankind got apart from to destroy? To punish, to obliterate, the only eternal thing a man can do is to destroy, all works are undone by time, but the undone cannot be undone, so he destroys. To grab your enemy by the hair and scream “You die by my hand”. That is what is to be a man. Rome can take a millennia to build, just a day to burn. Empires are built on corpses, roads of corpses, battles and history, wasted men. The sky is burning, the earth is burning, and man is burning.

So he looks down, and as the dust clears, like curtains pulled away from dawn, he sees he has made no impression upon the desert. The storm clouds come again. A whistle from the silent crypt of the sky. A reverberating signal. The sand just slips through his grasp and knotted fingers with each blow, replacing itself, he cannot grip the air, cannot strangle the void. So left is he, a straw man, a hollow man, the dry infirm material crumbles and falls back upon itself.

Darkness sweeps over the horizon. A raven in the night, a black box in a dark room. Life forms from destruction comes, burial in a womb.

As the rain comes down, the sand runs in rivers, like a living creature crawling over on its belly. It forms lakes and pools on the top of the desert, still pools, deep waters, sighing tides. The dunes slides back into the indentation that the savage beating made. Thicker and denser then ever. Thicker, deeper and denser then ever. So he beats the water, rips at the water but it slips through grip and he cries. And his tears fall into water, and even his grief dies. His tears are washed away in a tide of a thousand tear drops.

So still he beats, and as he beats the desert he screams still, making rough and animal grooves in the sand, screaming and shouting, ranting and raving, weeping and crying and gnashing his teeth. Cries that could have no humanity pinned upon them, so great destroyer of worlds, so great his he the destroyer of worlds but as he drove his hands into the almost flesh like warm wet sand, there was personality within, numbness without, he saw his works undo themselves. The perception-less desert rolls like waves onto the horizon, crashing limits, each punch made the sand denser, each blow made the dust cement together, so clumps and wads of wet sand fell from his clawed and grasping hands. To his dry mouth and shattered teeth, a hollow man.

So that man is still in the desert beating the sand for being sand and shouting at the desert for being a desert, blood pouring from his bruised and swollen knuckles, that were once smooth and pale as silky gold.

One day the dunes will swallow him I reckon, one day the hungry desert will open its sepultura mouth and take him in and grind out into sand. So he will be the sand as well. And that raging God of a man will sleep in the sand, still and formless and rage no more. A sleeper in the wasteland, a broken statue of a man, a bent back column. A faded star, as he beats his way to the grave, for what he cannot be, he must destroy, for what he cannot understand, he must destroy. For what he cannot create, he must destroy. He stands like a broken statue, the desert, the humanity. All he has in the end, is the dust in his hand.

Oh

Look upon his works and despair.