Funeral parlor comedians washing the blank skin of the dead. Three corpses lined up on the tables “XXX” reads their entrails scars. Yesterday’s thoughts and prey, pray to the end. A day begins and wastes away. Sunday.
The halogen-light flickers and hums. Rainwater-gutter love, on the alley crawling out of the window. The screeching of vultures and ravens with no dry place to go. A man whose head is too large for his stick like body with finger nails sanded to sharp claw-like points dances through the streets swiping at the wet birds as they circle around him. The rain pours hard and the birds are not as quick in their flight. The man eventually snatches one from the air and pushes his claws into it. The blood flows from the dead bird into his hand and slowly down his arm. The others repay this act by tearing out his eyes in one full swoop.
The night ends in a room, pink. It is sexy. Falling asleep in the warm embrace of feminine legs and razor marks, suicide stints and the matrimonial escapees. “Yeehaw, I am stillborn.”
Sick in her presence and taken to the hospital; puking up my skeleton all the way. I bet when this hooker woke up she would have never thought she would be with her dying customer and his bloody skeleton being hacked up on the floorboard. She didn’t even have time to wipe the cum off of her chest.
I achieve sanctuary, lying on a dirt road of despair curled fetal-like listening to the carriers of dead cadaver parts. The pieces from the useless to the barely worth saving. Three months off of a bathroom surgery and scars haven’t heeled. Blood doesn’t pump through ventricles and she must stab herself to relieve the pressure. I cannot save her; my head will not rise from the stone pillow that it lays...not to mention I have no fucking eyes. She passes in the night. By morning the birds are already upon her. I steal her eyes.
The door opens. A bright light. Pink. I am inside. It looks like a party.
Ian Daniel Larson