On the edge –

A man of fantastic means and nerves shot, leaves a known World to cut a forest down, a cabin built high enough for a man of six feet two or shorter.
Awake again, one year later, a man outside for herbs and white air.
Chores follow a man, but not for long now, eyes and eye-pupils inflate, and a heart rate of a masturbating Jock sits alive in his chest, pulling ribs apart like a lobster dinner, running for the freedom needed, the need to get out, get going with showering cheerleaders.
Saw there; saw then, tree-caught blue tarpaulin, sitting, looking, and flapping its hands heavily, noisily, all-encompassing in a southerly wind.
Thirty seconds travel by and two things fall to the ground, blue tarpaulin kills a wild flower garden, a man’s knees crush ants, then Vesuvius sanity escapes a man as it rose up, alive, kicking, it moulded and rolled towards a man.
A man, scared again, back against a wooden cabin wall, inside four straight lines, or uneven post-modern carpentry, that leaving, then, before, now forgotten, there’s no time in there because there’s no clock in there, then, there, provisions against a blue plastic insurgency dissolve, starvation, dehydration, emaciation, death.
One seasoned year and some bearded rifle carriers later, a cabin has it uses when frozen faces look to free storm-shelter.
Unnoticed, then noticed, and underneath tin cans, a half-skin and bone man-corpse.
Rifles lean against wood and the clean-shaven prepared for what was coming, now all outside for a burial, with a few choice words from the only lacquered chin who ever went into a church for something.
A collective ‘God Bless this man-corpse’ and ‘Amen’, but no one knew any hymns, or a Christmas carol, so a cry of ‘USA!’, ‘USA!’, ‘USA!’ was bounced off rocks, then, man-corpse was shunted swaying, then lowered into a spaded uneven hole in the ground, holy water from a stranger’s well sprinkled onto the wrapped man-corpse, now rigid warm inside a blue tarpaulin found lying inside his Troy.

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