There be dragons.

Refuge...

I am tired of community. 

I pack my bags and head South.  

I am sitting here contemplating uncharted territory, listening to crickets.

Peace at last.

I am vigorously avoiding definition, rules, shoulds, ethics, responsibilities...

Sod them all!

The warmth of the sun on my back and the chirping of unseen birds will suffice.

I unfold a map, observe the landmarks, note lines of contours and choose to ignore them all.

I look out to space, out on the margins;  tangled lines lead out to mythological realms.

I write, out of desire...

Out there (?) is smooth space.

Out there (?) dwell dragons...

Out there (?) their unseen, unwieldy forms, arouse my imagination.

I can see dragons now.

Nobody can deny their existence.

Nobody will fight my dragons.

Somebody might chortle at a crudely drawn creature but not even ridicule will dismiss their imaginative reality.

Diving for cover...

I dive underground and am immediately entangled in resistant, unthinkingly, vigorous, rhizomes, weeds.

I valliantly, rationally, struggle, cut, thrash, burn.

DIE will you?

The more I gesticulate, the more I dig, the more they proliferate. 

Unseen bloody weeds!

Reading matter?

I pick up an opened copy of Mille Plateaux...sod it!

I throw the volume into a trash can.

OUT voluminous, tubered frustration!

Its sheer size, its reams of words, takes up most of the can.

It is impossible crap.

It is now real rubbish to be recycled. 

HA! HA! HA!

Dense, repellent, dark, dragon-infested shit.

Shit will make for good fertiliser...