her kiss was like an adder’s fang all naked in the moon. beak into it. it would hover there, ghostly still, the blood and the milk hidden their release wetting ours – then, as if breathing, the sea swelled beneath us. if you must know anything it truly must take nothing but grief to turn…
Tag: Blood
Where the Streams Meet
echoes in the timid chamber – titian avarice pulses in wait preying on fresh drops to fall from bleating gash chest wounds squirming artists lost in the shuffle – voiding the hole of its precious fluid purple as their prose leaching whatever granules of inspiration diluted or fermented over time – tigris euphrates venous arterial…
Piecework Prose 