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FlutterEvery day she still dons a dress of asphaltFlutter by KaseyKillface
& a string of pearls shining like wolves teeth,
though she sees only bones and butterflies
behind her skin, nervous wings fluttering
against the ivory of her skeleton.
As she pulls up the silver spine
of her black dress,
her fingers tremble like
hollow reeds in the wind.
With mascara lashes sticky and dark,
she gives butterfly kisses to the air,
blinks back a memory
and bites a flesh-red lip.
She fights back the instinct to run
and instead tightens sinews in her shoulders
like the string of a bow.
she'll think she sees his face
in the mask of a stranger on the subway
and feel as if her ribs are folding inwards
like the wet wings of a swallowtail,
imagining she still senses
the razor-blade of his smile
against her neck.
She's haunted by a ghost.
Any real danger is gone;
all that remains is fear
and the echo of wings in the night.
She braces herself for the blow
that never comes, that will never come.
(as stars burn on
MuseInspiration in respiration,Muse by KaseyKillface
what breath inflates my lungs?
A muse, a child,
let me don my insanity cap
and write in candle ink.
my empty-attic mind
is haunted with ghosts
and your time has come
to pay rent.
So speak, sing seraphim
of the violently new, blossoming world!
I stand at the epicenter.
The spiral expands outwards,
explodes, filling all that empty air
with light and noise and joy.
I transcribe in muddled words,
poor translations in faltering vernacular.
I apologize if the words
do not meet their intention.
All I want is for them to vibrate
in the tendons, the sinews,
and settle down warmly
into a secret pocket
of bone marrow,
or even, rise into
the chest cavity, the lungs,
and then dance like
condensation on cold air
in the exhalations.
Science FictionWe are sliding into oblivion.Science Fiction by KaseyKillface
Dust-colored dogs roam the streets like wolves,
Perfect camouflage in this world
Where sky and earth are the same
Dull metallic hue.
The buildings are crumpled and dirty
Like used tissues piled atop each other.
A thick cloth wraps around the white sun
And there are moths on the lips of statues.
We are slipping into oblivion.
We breath Styrofoam air and eat synthetic
Vegetables. (The glistening future is here.)
Minds are upgraded, downloaded, synched;
Our ghosts float along the spider's web.
The neurons are only electric. We don't even dream.
Part of the machine the machine the machine:
Sept-jointed horrible clockwork.
(((A friend once told me,
"The human race is a grand murder-mystery
And I'm Sherlcok-F***ing-Holmes."
Who did it detective?
"Don't you know?
Don't you recognize the signs?
Suicide, my dear Watson.")))