The product I’m selling,
Is worthless at heart,
And broken in part.
It wouldn’t be missed,
It’s our first ever product,
To not want to exist.
I’m taking all offers,
We could burn it together,
It’s on sale right now,
As it has been forever.
It offers you nothing,
And offers me less,
I’ll throw it away,
And put me to rest.
Two sides of a card,
the coward, the liar,
too scared to seek,
what he does not desire.
He’ll think of a thousand,
they’ve just broken up,
or her other ‘offences’.
They’ll walk for a while,
sometimes in silence,
and he’ll hold his breath,
for an act of defiance.
But she gets her train,
and he gets his,
if romance was agony,
then friendship is bliss.
It took the children first. Few of them lasted the first week, fewer the next. It dug deep into their flesh and then suddenly, without warning, split apart their skin and ravaged its way out. It never once told us what it wanted or why it was here, but people came to their own conclusions. A punishment from god, a being from the astral plane, an incursion from foreign invaders. Some people figured it didn’t matter and kept silent, that or they died, either way they’re better off than the rest of us. My mother, now more wound than woman, has been in her bed for a week. She’s begun shaking in her sleep. I don’t think she’ll be with us tomorrow. It’s for the best. Continue reading
Grease in her hair,
Crumbs in your bed,
Will of a dead,
Relative, fought from a side,
Shut the windows,
Close the blinds, Continue reading
Save us sweet Sanvi, Sansanvi, Semangelaf.
Lilith, first daughter of our lord, crowning wife of Adam,
Birther of demons, dawn of original evil.
Shield our children from her reckoning,
Her skin creeping claws, her flesh sinking teeth.
Lying in glass shards she awaits,
to possess the innocent, to inflict her will.
Riding on the wings of Tanin’iver,
A Wake of Misfortune and agony,
Her path to defile the little ones we can’t protect.
A single cicada caught in the blistering wind,
ripples of the driest sea blurring the endless road ahead,
obscuring the low scratching of dust and dead leaves.
Fists of radiance beat the ground into submission,
cracks for the damned to
The knowledge argument. The line of reasoning that there exists knowledge that can only be gained through personal experience. The presumption that reading every book about colour ever written, as insightful an experience as that would be, would still leave you without the final piece. That oh-so important last piece of the puzzle that could only be attained through seeing colour yourself.
With this thought in hand, and an empty rifle by my feet, I ask you Sir; what is death, truly? Will we ever know?