Night an eight-inch blade,
more armor to be made,
silver as full moon's ache,
nerves mustn't hurt, shake,
extra time a lover's shade-
if I'm re-sprung to get laid,
after all debts have been repaid,
I can keep my parts awake,
master Hell for Heaven's sake-
she billows/blares blonde-fade,
I circle her eternally, wherefore
walls of her beauty shimmer, it's
a fracas of Biblical proportions,
nightstands nudging pills up ours-
Out stare the black eyes
of your mouth, as you out-
Jesus my parts, but from a side
of Heaven under-mentioned
in your Bible of half-meant jests,
& I watch you get cross-
"Take the bait, you little brat,
or I might be forced to eat
shit and try to fuck you again-
efface myself from your obsession,
become a priceless possession
you can forget about, now that I am,
again, yours, & that's that- take it!"
Arms folded over chest (as the man on the four of Swords), she paints inside a box-like carven space, (dank edges only seen on the outside), light filters in from small square windows, I hover over her, I’m this that she wants, but what she needs is to once again feel what avalanches can’t reach this head so full of color, ribbons, blueness.
me and a friend are propping up an online journal under the title of 'Pider, and I am hoping you may be able to somehow spread that tid-bit of information around to those who would be interested. we are looking for puncher's fists, lost infantries of troops, hungry sleep.
one may send submissions of text, art, .mp3's... to: Piderbits@gmail.com
It has been 5 sweet years since Mark Young began putting out Otoliths. In that period of time he has been one of the most generous publisher/editors in the game. It is my contention that effort such as his should be supported, so visit Otoliths and enjoy the fruits of Mark's labor.