The worst stories usually make you think: ‘but nobody had to die’.These are called true stories.
This revolution will be noted. It will be successful and above all, it will be in words.
(…) pick up your axe, start at the rootsdon’t miss the trunk, never forget:to end life truly and finallystart at the roots or end there.
Maybe I should stop while I’m aheadNay, I swim with sea-demons no sweet summer tuned radioover my sunless desertscapehow does it burn without the sun?
I could be the drumbeat in your chest like madness before a storm swirling restlessly.
All suffer and none should have to. But why not? If suffering makes life seem more real or more abstract, both circumstances are infinitely more bearable than the disturbing reality of mundane work-to-live-then-die-bored life.
The locals died and shrivelled with the autumnal leaves as their plastic, seasonal smiles faded with the last of the holidaymakers.
I could be that tenebrous enigma that floods out your words with sighs and frustration.
I could be the ceaseless mist that fogs your colourless eyes when you’re lost in your universes.
A radiant full moon of silver hangs in the black sky, between the veils of misty clouds.
The ocean cradles the bloodied moon in its aquatic arms like a mother holds her crying babe.