Play Dead- passage IV

Hungover. A thick blanket of nausea suppressed my every waking movement, goading the sleeping alcohol to erupt from my stomach. It had been two weeks since she had left, two weeks since a bottle of strong bourbon a night never seemed enough. ''She'll come back'' I thought, ''and that workhouse whore will stay.'' I grinned ''Whore.''
I uneasily sat up in bed; still half dressed, head still pounding, looking across to see that yesterdays pay was spent on a puerile, lackluster girl. She said she was nineteen, anyone could see she was at least three years younger, now her make-up was covering the sheets. A starburst anarchy of discount foundation and mascarra.
''Cheap, nasty, slut.'' I didnt care, each fuck was always the same, each underage whore was always different. Three-fingerd Marston should keep better check on his merchandise.
Not wanting to endorse any comfort from Marston's cattle I urged myself out of bed but all too quickly for my tender stomach. Blood drained from my face. Throat tightened. Can't breathe. Wretched, dry heaved. Vomit.

Play Dead- passage III

The evening sun shone strongly through the fractured kitchen window, only to illuminate how my home reflected my marriage. A kaleidoscope of shattered promises, our bittersweet splinterd life. A livid, desperate dream.
That damn whore had wrecked my house, wrecked the home I had worked hard to make for us. She had taken her good scissors and shredded my clothes, my best suit, the curtains, bed sheets. it looked like she had even used them to gash holes in the mattress and chairs.
I knew she had left. Packed her things and gone. Bitch. The only message she left was written smugly; proudly, on the back of our only wedding photo, it lay there crumpled and dog-eared, on the dated kitchen table. The bullet hole her full stop, signature. It read ''Fuck You.''

Falling

Falling. Falling through,
this warpstar melodrama.
Ashen mane. Tourniquet,
the seven circle stigma.

Muted. Credence manacled,
to heartbreak euphoria.
Stillborn babe. Son of sam,
plighted cherished hysteria.

''Power in the strike comes from the breath not the muscle.
Breath becomes energy in the body and extends through the limbs as power''

-General Iroh.

Crimson Comatose

Crimson comatose,
why were you the prize dear Lilium?
Caressed by feral tenderness.
sweet innocence refracted,
by the crystal glass of want.

Crimson comatose,
what happened dear Lilium?
Kissed by placid brutality.
Cloying ignorance splinterd,
and lust bled your rose.