A mosquito bit me, then died.
There’s no such beauty as a sea of poppies
Swaying in swathes of red.
There’s no such joy as that delicate lace,
The lifeblood of Gaia for us exposed.
Let that royal elixir fill our every pore
And transfuse our souls with hers.
Though the world may bleed
Liquescent in crimson still
We’ll have this moment
Author’s Note: Just in case you ever wondered.
To flow unadulterated, undiluted from a neck of porcelain perfection, white as bleached bones, soft as melting candle wax, one would have presumed it tasted like milk. One would have presumed many things of my profession, my life. Almost all of course would be wrong. Such is the way with imaginations, they falsify facts. The truth, the salient detail I seek to deliver with aplomb: her blood was metallic. Please, allow me to demonstrate.
I collated the data, crunched the numbers, extrapolated every last minutiae, distilled it all down to one cold hard truth: I loved her. So why didn’t I feel it in my heart? Why didn’t I get that chill one should? Question after endless question. I licked the blood from my lips and shrugged as her soul tickled my tongue. I’d try again tomorrow. There was always tomorrow. Perhaps I’d feel differently with the next.
Like a graze, he moves,
scabbing over the sidewalk
in dried crimson.
His eyes give him away;
they flitter over the real world
seeing through it, around it.
A flailing moon is caught like a fish
on a dangling rod, impaled
on a celestial hook.
The scab has waited, lingered
in the shadows awaiting this.
He flashes a scimitar smile.
They don’t know what hit them.
They don’t feel a thing, at first.
They do then. Oh, they do then.
The scab is fresh now
blood oozing out over the city:
This anticoagulant killer.