Hear the rags settling in my spare room? No bones remain. I wear sandals now, mow the lawn on Sundays. We hum, collide. I like your neck. This smile takes practice, my lips too small for teeth. I am greening
from The Demonologist’s Notebook
corn-offering the husks are dry, infested with red lizards creeping circles, tiny dijnn. something flutters in the wastelands and thickets, a frisson of dark, batwinged and broken, carving glyphs into the remaining green. here is the place. recall the theology
Maybe You Are a Serial Killer: With a Conscience: Or a Crime Writer
When the dead girl says beautiful murder she means these hooks are for oystering. She uses those cemetery words you’ve never spoken, wielding them like crucifixion, seizure. You remember her as a bruise, a wink, a tattooed wrist smitten with
The Tulpa Speaks to Her Creator
“In the dreamer’s dream, the dreamed one awoke.” –Jorge Luis Borges The tuning fork broke when you dreamt lung, stone, seawater. So I am incomplete, a sigil with no center, wearing only this cotton shirt. Flames lick the circle, a