DonovanVolk

When we still knew how to crawl The giants taught us how to fall To stand on feet of clay and bawl To beat the floor and pound the wall So began our education In criticism and condemnation In sarcasm and accusation In irony and wild elation We were taught to live life right In muddled terms of black and white And in the end we saw that might Has the final word in every fight As baby giants learnt and grew We made our little wars on virtue We struggled to define what’s true And took what we thought as what we knew Giant children we had become Who blew the pipe and banged the drum Saying, what’s right for me is good for none Wha

There is a malaise here that never seems to weaken A rotten-fin fish that breathes heavy air. Broken souls haunt the subway by night With a bottomless bellow of hate and despair There’s a swift prescense, who drinks of no mercy Who never sleeps,  and howls from padded cells From the stump of a tree, the cave of a mountain Creeps out to stalk cattle and poison the wells There’s a worm that gets inside the mind An invisible smoke atop the fire Burning in soldiers on streets of cut glass Prowling with bitter and dark’nd desire

Fuzz Head Winter Just Pale Mist Whore head touching Looking to gamble away A future in the sun Just thinking of the next Egypt next thing Thailand next thing No ideas, no images No connections No creativity Just this damn room alone Vegetating

The solemn autumn leaves whisper along the pavements, only the laggards linger now on trees. They outlast their sisters in their wilful clinging but will not outlive them. Mulch is their destiny, as with you and me, and everything. I was catatonic the entire morning. The sun barged in and I rolled over. Last night the five o clock a’morning tram driver fixed us with a leery eye as we shambled back from gemorrah. Any time of the day or night Berlin is rampant. She is my gutter whore, my three-euros three-course meal, I dip my cock in the spree and laugh. On days like these inspiration feeds on inspiration, and melancholy on melanchol

Two Thousand words a day Went down the drain It was six hundred And I don’t know If there’s six hundered more In me The characters are stereotypes Except for one A reflective bum Like me The world’s been done before But no-one can write my story Like me

I see a smokestack From the window Above the tenements Looking down All day long the smoke Blows from the chimney To the West And a clear day, today It blows East And tonight The air is calm And we can see it As it truly is It goes straight up And fans out It stretches It howls It howls A demonic face With horns

Literature is a fantasy world. Literature is emotions unfurled. Literature is the mind's paintbrush. Literature is a heart's soft touch. Literature is imagination. Literature is sleep deprivation. Literature is my greatest bane. Literature is my favourite game. Literature is no simple fling. Literature is...                        Everything.

The sun is setting on a beach. In the sky animals fly. Before there were birds there were giant flying reptiles. They dominate the skies supreme, and came in many different shapes and sizes. One giant animal flies past the others. He dwarfs the others in the sky. His silhouette flies out to the ocean into the orange light. This is the life of one of the largest flying animals to have ever lived. 120,000,000 BCE, Brazil We are in the semi-arid scrublands of Brazil. It is the beginning of a time in the Mesozoic called the Cretaceous. The continents have moved, and as they do Gondwana begins to split up. Recently South America has begun to dri