The crackle of the fire has deadened red worms hidden deep in the heart of ash, to hear it you’d have to get your face close like a dog preparing to sniff another dog’s ass.
The sleeping animals never dream of slaughter just food and endless safe meadows mating and family scenes where the terrible blunt hooves of mankind keep to the horizon.
The rooster is up early to puff up his feathers – it surveys the yard and inspects the ash heap that once was a bonfire and smells the sour tang of melted plastic and kicks at hot screws in the dust.
The gates are open and the farmhouse is dark – the rooster walks into the kitchen and shakes water off his feet then walks into the warm empty dark until sleeping electricity and man-stink drives him away
There is a tinge of silver at one edge of the world while the moon has just about reached the other. the rooster rakes its spurs through the cool dust understanding no hands will steal the hen-fruit today.
a poet from Seattle Washington USA. His poetry has appeared in print in publications such as Bellowing Ark, Point Nopoint, and most recently in Contraposition magazine. When not writing poetry he is a Human Resources professional, a repentant glutton, and a novelist specializing in the weird-fiction genre.
Today’s pandora box is possessed, spirits within are legion, living bogeys are numerous, ever so often drunk, every day pandora hypnotizes followers, 24/7 pandora mesmerizes- adherents- making billions addicted to vacuum tube. Ancient gods- mild or ferocious- pandora has rebranded,
The rapture was on prowl to get the believers. You knew what you should not have known about the baby blue. Aphasia, experiences an impulsive violence, beyond the dead. Bionic hands to capture the moment of swapping uremia with swastika.