The incessant hum of the light sabre, the cyclical knocks of
the prop. Ghostly voices drunk and high. Revelling in the shortest of breaths.
Shallow gasps of air caught in between storms. The bass drops in an
unidentifiable song, a swarm of locusts take to the air. Revelling still. The utter
hopelessness of hope. Of therapy. Of whores. To dull the senses tonight would
be to sharpen it some more. The lead drops down their bellies. The sulphur
fills their lungs. To flakes and milds. To monks and pride. Jump on to the
other side. Come on to the other side.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDelete