“Crooked Realm”

Under the water,

where sins go for slaughter,

it rains in reverse.

Machines spit out dreams,

stitched up at their spilling seams,

unsure about their new legs.

Wolves cry instead of howl,

constantly on the prowl,

looking for the source of their bleeding.

Fae wander the hills,

with hair as black as a raven’s quills,

struck blind by their own beauty.

A tower unmoving,

skin grooving,

collapsing in on itself.

All the kings horses and all the kings men,

weeping in a golden glen,

for they lost their king.

 

“Gross Debauchery”

It was a grotesque party, so by definition it was wonderful.

And by wonderful I mean full of wonders, the likes of which the world cannot even begin to appreciate.

Acrobats writhed and waltzed with the cruel atmosphere, suspended by dark silks and iron rings. They moved to their own rhythm, their own sound.

Dancers, the acrobats’ kin, moved beneath them in a tangled mess of limbs, lips, wings, and cloth. They cavorted in such a disconcerting manner, creating a beautiful bastard of a time.

Music was relative, coarse ballads mingling with privileged sonnets and fast tempos giving way to lethargic pauses. The result was an irregular threat, a frightening pulse that kept the affair at large.

There was no distinguishable furniture to speak of, only a lone stone table set apart from the glaring revelry. It was laden with food that turned to ash in your mouth.

The only source of light came from a single bulb, amidst the acrobats; large enough to cast a muffled glow, but small enough to welcome darkness,

an old friend.