Sanguine avengers descend
like self-righteous saints
who themselves orchestrated the disaster.
Rouged cheek,
blood coated lips,
Argonauts lost in a sargasso sea.
You and me,
separated at the tongue,
joined at the groin,
drowning together,
because neither will touch
the oxygen bottle.
Incense cloys,
around the edges of our history,
it's no mystery,
this cannot end well.

If the trees can feel sorrow
then we have reached the apex of sorrow.

It is a screaming sadness,
a swansong shriek we will all be singing soon.

It is a howl that must be savored,
for when the screaming stops
that's when the pendulum drops.

No number of armed guards,
freeze dried mre's, and cold concrete
will protect your neck
when the blade descends
to the point of termination.

There is more energy encased in this clear bead
that crawls inexorably out of my eye,
than a million, billion universes
of millions of billions of bright burning suns.
I can see the chains of glowing power
split in the prismatic lense,
surging outward, and ******* inward.
Each quivering beam of dazzling radiance
cuts across my blurry field of view,
like a flitting glimpse of a naked nightmare
that lives beneath the skin of the sky.
All these things I have seen reflected
a billion, trillion times
in the shattered crystal shard
created by a single drop,
snagged in the net of interwoven eyelashes,
brought together by a spasm of joy.
As the liquid prism dangles,
an eye-sickle, drawn downward,
it explodes in a saline cascade,
and in the moment before the droplets reach my lips
I see the face of God, reflected in the surface of my tears.

A story by tiger body

By All Means Increase Your Hate For Sculptors
they won't conceal the sour lies
they are silent on the subject of biting, vinegar tangy
and their hands over your eyes

take my body to a mathematician
they will not revive you
they will empty your mind of jagged ruggedness
and deny you the sun

Surrender your mind to an accountant
carelessly ignore the lead and leaf
denying you from horrid hellholes
they are unlikely to conceal and bore

Be selfish with you're disinterest of painters
you're no better off as enemies
they still the whirling innanities
in a one act play, that changes every day

By All Means Increase Your Hate For Sculptors
don't believe the silence they keep from you
they have lost their ropes and nets
later and momentarily

if you're out of hate for politicians
you are unaware of the validity of it
once in a while the path is blocked
to leave this hatred behind myself

I am the sear of steam
I am the blackness of the pit
I am the killer of mothers
I am a dull razor
I am a red dirt nightmare
I am an unyielding cruel desert
I am a black and white, dead fire
I am one of many hated
I am the naked winter branch
I am the teeth of the serpent
I am the dry and desolate plains
I am the bile bitter phlem, you spit out
~~~~~~~~
You will hate me
In the flicker of an eyelid
You hate me
As the hail pounds everything
back into he dust.

Outside
there exists limitless bliss.
I set it free
before I stitched shut your spirit.
She flows forward towards
secure healing.
Be calm
your brain may be shattered
it crumbled apart in pieces
without his hate
I see the little snippits she saves
his singular death
soiling the path before me!
this person isn't;
after I sealed my mind
I remembered to leave you
this joy outside you.
Now she is free
she doesn't have to try to be.
My cruelty has collapsed in on itself,
as she collapses against his memory.
She will never step outside
not now, not ever.
Dry-eyed
I will neglect the stiches in your spirit,
and you will erase me next.

For too long.
It has been too long...

I sit and flip back through
the scrapbooks collected in my head...

Searching. Reaching. Pleading for one reason,
one touch, one gesture,
one true declaration...

I can't find one, not one.
If one exists, now its gone...

What I have endured
without the simplest sustenance,
not so much as a grizzle scrap...

And still I must give?
I have nothing of worth.
I am not sure that I ever have...


        A willow, wilts and dies
in a neverending drought...

What will I do
when the last drop in the well is gone?

Does the last full bucket look different
from the ones drawn before?

When the tree falls in the woods
and no one cares either way
is it worth the effort
for the poor pathetic thing
to make a sound at all?