Nightmares of BeautyThe nightmares consist of mercury faced monsters complete with glass teeth and gargoyle eyes. I have not the power to deny themNightmares of Beauty in Short Stories More Like This
(Look deeper. Creatures creeping beneath pupil.)
It keeps asking me to digest the butterflies with the sharpness sewn to my jaw, and I say
"No these are your teeth,"
Don't you want to taste beauty?
(yes, but I don't want to destroy it.)
She kept claiming to be me, and her smile of soil
Softcore Porn and Moldy FruitYou'd expect the bite of lemon juice to be enough,Softcore Porn and Moldy Fruit in Free Verse More Like This
o' but no, the incisions always indulged in moldy peaches.
Raunchy, biodegradable fruits
full of foul odors and seeds that say "Fuck You"
if you ask them to grow.
You'd think someone would begin to loath
the invasive glint of steel soaked in citrus rot,
but no, her stitches kept tasting for the ache
of scalpel beneath skin.
That familiar ooze;
peaches and crème slipping down forearm.
She grew accustomed to the daily rituals of apricot patches
molding to skin.
She understood the necessity of routine,
the demands of a schedule.
Scabs peeled and picked
to a fleshy, citrus dessert.
I find her infatuated with tangerine ice-cream
sliding from the seam of arteries,
and I'm wincing as she
relishes liquid candy.
And it's demented, but her eyes shriek "Delicious. Delicious."
And this is revolting and wretched, but her eye's say "You Love
aqueous.she had never come within ninety-three million miles of anything like love, but she said if she ever did, she would name it "september" and keep it in a dirty glass bowl like a mindless goldfish. she'd watch it swim back and forth, waiting for its belly to meet the surface so she could cry for something worthwhile.aqueous. in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
she considered the consequences of scribbling down every thought that crossed her mind, pushing it into a bottle, and sending it across the sea. she wondered how long it would take to crack and sink to the ocean floor, and if whatever dwelled below would understand her better than those here above.
she dreamed that life was an all-consuming tsunami, and she figured drowning in it felt something like a soul blistering from a body and slowly drifting away. she couldn't imagine what it would be like if she knew the secret to breathing underwater.
Routine7:45 AM. A woman wakes up, dresses her best (her coat, a stranger's gift), and walks outside. Empties her wallet to charity. It is nothing.Routine in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
1:20 PM. The addict stumbles down the busy street, hungry, shoots his dealer, bystander, and takes his prize. Walks away and no one follows. Indulges. Clutches his chest, falls over, is dead. It is nothing.
8:00 PM. The woman walks home, sees body, smiles. Is he sleeping? Takes off coat, covers man. Slips money in pocket--he'll find it there. Goes inside. It is nothing.
3:15 AM. Adulterer, fearful, kicks the ground, angry with world. Sees vagrant, robs. Is he cold? The coat is familiar. Ignores. Buys gun. Shoots spouse, temptation, damnation.
It is nothing.