The shellingThe.shelling.stopped.tenhoursagobutThe shelling by dreamingshadow
my limbs shaking limp jack-in-the-box at every cr
eak. Creak. Creak. Dawn
creaks over the surface of our blood planet
a haze horizon
sweat of the dead rising inbayonettwirls wait.
for. the. drop.
anxiety pearls from me and hhhhhiittttssssss
the gargling ground an exploding necklace whistling through my.
Tommy's yolk slip sentences sliding through all the
leaves of once white never delivered why for god's sake why where is
postman for my soul/where is the sense in all i've come to know/the world stopped the
and yet we are all clutching to bombed out membranes holding selves walking
foetuses cursing in
tongues and throwing
grenades that land as
i see death claw out of the chasm frown lines of hallucinations that
claim tobesoldiersandyet are exhaling their gunpowder lungs until there is not
air for them
She takes a feather.
In her embroidered
I have been featured here:|
I am now offering up the short novel I wrote in seven days in November 2013 by request only. I'm not publishing it online.
If you're interested, message me, and I'll send it to you. Lame ass blurb:
In the breaths of draught let in by his presence in the doorway, her nightdress rippled a song of midnight sea; the impact of his own breath like a ghost boat sliding across her body. She was a blank white queen, like a human chess piece, surrounded by black squares, and only words now could be written upon her. She could be anything, it seemed, but not enough.
What is there to do when you feel nothing?
And how do you deal with a life you suddenly find yourself in, answering the surprisingly difficult questions from your children about the nature of the world and living?
existing follows the story of a writer who desperately tries to write himself, and his family, to a better ending.
A chapter preview can be found here: