SusurrusInGrass

 Life was birthed from the immortal womb as a pomegranate - at puberty, he split open and, raw, found himself filled with innumerable bleeding cushions of pulp that gods waited to touch to their teeth. He began in Armageddon - got high through the murderous rage that boiled the moon and poured it into the mouths of billions uplifting their heads - dealing in the inadequacy of the human body to fully express great passions. He grew through years the way water is swept down stairs, in great blasting waves of silt and murk. Time progressed backwards for him, over the knobs of great inventions to times before they ever existed, and then bac

A massive shadow of doubt tugged against the cliffs edge, hanging, idling, swinging and ready to fall over his head at any moment - but he kept climbing. Pebbles dug into the tips of his fingers and a blade of grass slid cleanly beneath a fingernail. He clambered and skittered, slid and ascended, and all the time that shadow threatened to come crashing down on top of him, Chased by the side of the mountain.

The Cyan gas pulled inward by gravitational force Revolves meanly within the white ceramic mug And respires with the consistency of coffee. The silent, resonant tundra of moon Splays, sliced, at the edge of the blue-white patterned china plate And relaxes, comfortably garnish. The rutilant form of fiery plain Winks redolently, slurping at the edges of the glass bowl And swims, dissolving slowly in its own heat.

Smoking with his head back, lying, emitting smoke above his eyes and watching the red ember dazzle, dangerously close and a vertical beacon… he lies in such lifelike reality to seem foreign, and strange. The cigarette, an extremity of his being, the soft immobility, quietness, and resignation encapsulated in the wires of hair extending across his down-turned eyes… it reels in the child, keeping an eye to his clasped knees - jeans brilliant, deep with detail, so it would seem by his desperate meditation. His hair, geometric and grungy atop his head, his eyes breathtaking, creepy lights in artist&#

I went to the midnight toaster factory traveling in a vat of boiling blood where I took a bag emptied of those forgotten ends of bread and filled it the brim with red and bruises and no one said anything at all.

What do you want?   I don’t know, but whatever I hear,     I want it to come    from nothing. I want it      Seeping into me like teabags. I want you seeping into me like teabags made From organs. Can you do that?      I think I could.      If I loved you      Enough.

She was the wrong kind of dame walking the wrong back alley and living in the wrong century. She was the type of gal whose cherry-bomb lipstick could be found in perfect lip-shaped O’s on Diner windows and bathroom mirrors where anyone walking past might stop and wonder at the meaning and love behind the action. What she was doing there, no one would know. One thing even the Top-Police-Dick was sure of when he saw the photos of her high-heeled Dorothea-and-Toto-red boots lying in a puddle of her blood like the fruit in the middle of jam was that she did not belong with death and the misery of murder. Sure, she might have been a whore (