UnculturedSweat on his hands. Sweat in his hair. Bludgeoning heart. Body rocking with tension and arousal. His mouth was agape, dry, and he licked his lips with his tongue limp like a dead fish, drying on the shore. His breath encouraged his blood excitedly as he swiftly sifted his fingers through his stringy brown hair which flopped back over his eyes, the sweat dripping into them. His chair was fragile, the wood weak with age and the pressure of scores upon scores of desperate men and some dripping women spanning the years. There were five chairs all together spreading either side of him, each as pathetic as the next; its nails protruding spitefully around the rotten splinters. They stood crookedly as if looking down, mocking the grey concrete and its many wounds and drawn markings invisible in the nightlight. The rectangular room had windows at the walls either end, neither of which he sat again
RisingOne day she lay alone in her bed,Her solid red pajamas beaming,Like frozen blood on dead skin,Still in a moment of forgetfulness,Soon to awaken as the,Rising sun,Melting the dead image into flow,Glowing like a dandelion,Offending the poppy,Across the canvas sheets,In forgetfulness,Recalling to the state ever begging,"Let me be in peace again."The blooming primaries finally,Giving way,To mornings unwanted,Pale in the shadow of the day.