Yawning Abyss

They sat in the middle of the field, leaned against a fallen tree, vapor rising from their somnambulators.

Their eyes were gone under their shades. They had traded them to the grinning birds as a bribe, not knowing that their beaks were formed that way when the hurricane ripped them from the wind.

The grins never stopped, but they could no longer tell. They walked now in circles, widdershins, and pointed their snoring noses upright. They would see now with dream rods and nightmare cones. The sky and the ground equated.

The field crawled with life, but their boots kept it from them. Their ears were stuffed with cattails. They did not want to awaken. They did not want to sense the grins still on the beaks of the birds that took their vision.

They would walk in circles until they dug graves with their steps. Softly, they would lie down and let the sun suck the blood from their backs. Berries would grow in their corpse dirt and the birds would eat these as well, unsated.


“Come back in. You’ll catch Death out there.”

I stood on the deck of the iron cruise ship, counting rust sprites and trying to slow my vision enough to see the secret of their industry. The overseer of my play group had allowed me one ibogaine soda pop as an afternoon pick me up, even though my mother had told me I was becoming a different person, a bit changed every time I drank one. The raspberry syrup covered the bitterness well.

My overseer had offered me watermelon flavored ibogaine soda pop once and I nearly lost the brain from my skull so active was my rage. “Have you ever tasted watermelon?” I had screamed and he had replied, “No. Only watermelon soda pop.”

I forgave his ignorance as he forgave my tantrum.

“Billy! Now! You’ll catch Death out there!”

I almost caught a rust sprite resting, but the moment my eye flickered slantwise, she was away and once again moving at vision blurring speed. The sprites did not fear Death. Perhaps they were too fast for him. Yet, my mother implied that it was I that would take Death into a net or a jar, or perhaps my hands if I were brave in that moment. Death was my prey then and mother knew it. I had been searching for meaning among the beauty of the rust sprites, but I had been on the journey all along; not just the cruise my mother had so patiently saved for, but the journey to put Death on display.

That was it then. When I left kindergarten, I would become a paleothanatologist by trade and learn the history and current whereabouts of Death and how to care for him or her while in captivity.

Perhaps I would find many Deaths. A nice breeding pair.

The wind moved over the ship in salted gusts. My mother’s hand fell on my shoulder and I jumped.

“Come inside. Right now,” she looked into my lidless eyes, dirty blonde eyes. “You’ve had soda before bed again, haven’t you? I am going to have to have a chat with little miss priss down at the daycare. This is supposed to be my vacation. Now I’ve got to deal with this.”

“I will dream now, mother. I will dream whether I sleep or not.”

Noise, Nature

I walked lazily through the field with my shadow brothers and my stick, counting the colors of the flowering weeds.

Birds told me news I didn’t feel like hearing, so I shot them with rocksĀ as they sang and they shut their beaks up in fear. I would have peace today. I would have air and exercise. Their indecipherable songs, weaving in and out of the leaves, notes striving for dark bird meat, merely stirred up my brain and cock alike. I would have a quiet body today.

The frogs knew better than to croak. They could taste mammal anger with their bubblegum tongues and would save their croaking for their underwater caves.

A bee buzzed by and my shadow brothers touched it with a cold finger and it fell in the dirt to dance no more. I could barely hear its venom crying out for activity, but could feel the ground vibrate with anticipation. New dust for the mud machine. New death for the soil.

To think that death is silence is to forget we feel the grass growing through us, sawing at our bits like a crazed violinist, unceasing but when it freezes.



Unpack the Idol

It came time to unpack her bag. She had sat for hours now in the room in every comfortable position (her favorite being on a pine straight wooden chair with her legs crossed beneath her, back rigid.) She had smelled every corner (ammonia, cedar, lemon extract, human skin), listened to the walls and baseboards and the immobile ceiling fan hung with dust (the creaking of the joints of the old building, the sagging of its flesh, the squeaking of distant vermin.) Tasted her fingers after running them under the lip of the mattress (sweat, dog saliva, blood, cat dander, semen, snake tongue.)

Her bag lay open on the floor, inconveniently blocking both the front door and the door to the bathroom, not to mention both closet doors. Her clothes were neatly rumpled within; a book of ancient weapons had slid around, upsetting things during the commute. She could put the clothes on the hangers. She could lay the book on the desk. She could zip her bag up and shove it in the closet, out of the way.

But she won’t.

She wants them to trip, to fall, and to know what she was reading when they find her and to think of it as they sing her old songs. She would have them touch her clothes and get her smell on their hands and chests so that her ghost can find its way back from the edge of the black river and touch their spines in the night. And she will see them on their faces from behind her death mask, in accidental worship.

Goodbye, Roy

Roy looks down the graying street, unable now to look away. His blood feels heavy and slow compared to the crisp air moving about his face and lungs. 32 meters away, his ear picks up the beginning of the caw of a crow, a sound so irritating to Roy that he would normally have stuck his fingers in his ears to damn the vibrations from the black beak of that filth-winged devil.

However, his arms hadn’t worked since they fell off and rolled down the streets as if they were long bags of nothing, frolicking about in the errant breeze. One was stuck in the sewer grate in which he pissed the other night, stumbling home drunk, full of sloshing brains and weak morals. Roy didn’t like to think of himself like that, not now, not at the end of his time on the planet. He liked to think of happy things, like the fact that the neighbor lady was using his other arm to scratch her ass and finger herself with. That must feel nice. His fingers were nice and clean today.

It was everything else that was dripping with dirt and blood.


my god what is that sound
we’re being bombed!
by whom?
no time, no time! to the guns!
where should I point?
up up up at the moon for all I care just point and
fire and fire and fire and fire
until the stars themselves regret casting their light so forcefully upon our freedom!
i don’t see any flashes of light.
but don’t you hear the roaring of death? don’t you hear the screams of all of your friends? don’t you hear the grinding of the enemy?
oh I hear some things i suppose but see nothing but the quiet wind.
what are you, eyes? fire fire fire!
feel the flame and smell the track of the bullets
as they whiz by the clouds.

I believe I will just sit quietly until your tongue dries up.

Trick or Fucking Die

No one went to old man Godkiller’s house after he ax murdered and crucified a school bus full of children back in ’06. Even though they could see that he had full-sized candy bars, the best looking pumpkins, and even a bowl full of smoking “potion” that the teenagers claimed would get you “fucked up”. But even they didn’t go into that yard on Halloween. No matter how many times Godkiller played the Monster Mash and danced around with a skeleton in his arms, cackling about his stash of candy and his egg-free siding.

But Jimmy was real dumb. He couldn’t read and he thought everyone was a cartoon and when we told him all about the rivers of blood that old man Godkiller would unleash upon the neighborhood if he caught even one child in his yard after dark he didn’t hesitate for a second, just went on over, hopped the fence, and proceeded to walk directly into the old man’s withered claws. His flesh fell from him like a pile of shaved ham. Godkiller had made drums out of his skull, scalp stretched tight over the hollowed eyes. Boom boom boom.

Mutation: the Final Reward

A curtain of diminutive skulls hung between rotting logs, separating the passageway. Birds, infants, rats: their remains hung silent and still in the stale air. Though no door barred the thief’s way, he found himself unable to cross the threshold, to touch the profane bones. He had come all this way. Would he really be turned away from Radbathigustinak’s treasure by a simple curtain of fetishes? Breathing deeply and gathering his will, he stuck his hand out to part the strings of remains.

The flesh melted and dripped from his hand, finger bones bleached white by a burning orb emanating from the child’s skull. In his ear, the bird beak pecked and whispered to him his sins against his fellow man, accusations echoing around the pain. The rat skulls crawled tooth-first to his genitals and sank into feast. As his mind left, he heard a voice saying, “I see you’ve found my treasure. To be made a monster before passing into the abyss: this is my gift to those who seek.”

Last Step from First Words

Timmy: and the ground became dinosaurs when he learned to talk and on their strange lizard backs did he trod, barefoot before the feeling left. They had taught him words and so the sticks became the teeth of great beasts, tongues larger than himself sticking out of the hedgerow. The bees and bugs were working for the dinosaurs, of course, and the terrible lizards would buzz and shake and dance as if they were bugs and the definition of master and servant would fade out of focus as the ground buzzed and shook and danced under our feet.

The hole that swallowed Timmy was wet, like a mouth, and endless, like the appetite of the toothed horrors all around us now.

Some (nothing) Thing

There is a difference between the nihilism of someone who has searched the Universe for Something and found Nothing and someone who has searched and found a Something so vast that it may as well be Nothing as incomprehensible as it seems. These are the same Nothings, the first person having gone East and the second West before converging. It is the journeys that are different and what they see along the way that will shape how they react when they meet and how they speak of Nothing.

And then there is the nihilism of those who are told that there exists Nothing and never have the balls to jump into the Void to test it out. This is the nihilism of a slave who, told that only Death awaits him outside the fence of the complex, decides to never leave and to endure his suffering. And Death finds him anyway, not believing in fences, and steals his battered soul from his aching body and throws it into the Void after all.