Fiction & Poetry
Category
I place my healing hand on your icicle brain.
Life is too short not to own multiple bazookas.
Piss City
The window of the inn looks out on the narrow street. It’s opaque with smudged filth.
Hours
There was a wailing sound coming from the next room.
The Roofer
My blood had soaked into the pages. It looked really bad. The poetry, not my blood.
Blinkpoint
Man, this republic is fucked
Spoils
I am rich with the stuff,
Won from an enemy’s savage gardens.
Father-Daughter Dance
When I was thirteen years old I got punched in the face.
Betwixt the Columns of this Colonnade
Taste the stomach lining. Taste the intestines. Push your yellow teeth chewing through them.
Book of Hours
two cardinals. wrapped in red & roped in ring. with sticks for the beating.
Gassing Urban Populations
I wonder if the orchestrator
Of these repetitive tragedies
Is thinking to conduct a war –