VFireFalcon

I'll love you forever means I love you for now twisted fingers are hopes and not praises the most loving eyes possessing you like a doll. Beauty marks are still flaws in undevoted eyes promises are for lengths unspecified life becomes a chess game sans king or queen. We question the pope's devotion when we hear he fucked the bishop. His eyes roll under stolen guillotine. We don't need disloyal corpse worshippers. In the future people are depressed by miscarriage of marriage foetus abominations laid broken on plastic trays they laugh because it looks already like a lover betrayed. Things that I trusted- lightly bruised skin, an ab

They tell you to come alive when the sun can scald your vulnerability, and for further measure, to peel away your eyelids and pin them to a corkboard until your funereal ashes are complete. Yes, you skin yourself every morning after night's haunting has broken your shell. And because they tell you to breathe in time, you choke a metronome around your organs themselves, because they insist you laugh, you are coughing up nightmares with every word. Believe, it is necessary, believe you can change if you only believe in belief. Their words, repeating. Relief from hell will come with clicking heels and saying you'd rather be in limb

Past dusk with the demons' eyes of car tail lights chasing after post-day dreams and whistling too high to hear except through the fogging glass that reflects those same old tiresome eye whites. Scanning the horizon for a new day a blue-green radium glow is discovered, clouds that beckon sunlight and apocalypse because each turning of the clock's hands is another moment closer to your personal mushroom cloud. When the sun rises the trees will be skeletons and the telephone poles will be crucifixes against which will lie the hopes and dreams of truckers who will perish in the roadside ditch as their hands still steer and the wheel

slithering, the words appear reflect like water on the walls, crawl like army ants across your skin eat it away, reveal the flesh. eventually when their acidity is true you will submit, lie down until your chest is covered, ribcage exposed and the air will rust your organs. they make you doubt and they show you that you are nothing corporeal, you are a reflection of light and atoms and your body means nothing the words you trace on your arms with fingertips are drawing arterial blood and horror, and laughter and the only thing left: write "helter skelter" on the mirror, smile as you die alone. you are not flesh bone blood

In close proximity, there are sometimes rats so covered in dirt, bile, excrement that their tails knot inextricably, they become legendary monsters held together by the bare cable-limbs that strain against each other. They become monsters. Legend-worthy monsters, invisible because their buried screams are so horrifying that the sewers hide them from light. Their corpses are uncommon finds. Wound together and bound by filth. Rodent teeth protrude from the mess of ribcages, fur, and debris. As the corpses decay the flesh peels back and their expressions become fittingly monstrous and agonised. Bare bones peer through the r

sleep in rage, and when you wake, one by one your bones will break, skin will mold in sun's new light and you will weep with all your might that now your life has grown so cold that you can never live til old.

It started with a prayer. He wasn't one to be religious, but he prayed nonetheless. Prayer to him wasn't a particular call to "God," it wasn't even the symbolic pose of eyes to heaven and hands clasped gently before him. He didn't believe in that kind of prayer. That was for the believers, and he didn't think he was a believer... not in powers on high, at any rate. Prayer to him was a soft warmth growing in his chest and his palms. It was something that radiated from the spaces between his bones and the hairs across his body, strong enough that he was overwhelmed by just that thought, that hope. The wish, the desire, the desperate plea with