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..:: CONTENTS ::..
   Volume VIII, Issue II

..:: POETRY ::..


..:: PROSE ::..

..:: ETC ::..
   Contributor's Notes

..:: ARCHIVES ::..
   Volume I, Issue I
   Volume I, Issue II
   Volume II, Issue I
   Volume II, Issue II
   Volume III, Issue I
   Volume III, Issue II
   Volume IV, Issue I
   Volume IV, Issue II
   Volume V, Issue I
   Volume V, Issue II
   Volume VI, Issue I
   Volume VI, Issue II
   Volume VII, Issue I
   Volume VII, Issue II
   Volume VIII, Issue I

 
Prose


Strung Out on Redemption
Wayne Mason

 

Americas dilapidated verses stammer the holiness of western angels exploding the image. Times self interior and intention, this trying skin trembles dreams contemplating low suns. The pain of living shattering nothing graveyard spasms enamored by the silence of clanking machines. Words die in desires uninhibited, old desolation decayed spread in the breath of language. The heartless enveloped shallow horizons met with little resistance. They looking scream at natures dangerous delta eye haunted by essence of control. Zen of rain beats urgently on sidewalks to back door purgatories while words burn. Reality glistening the eyes wallowing all collapsed and lonely.

Dusty emotional flings opened gods one lie. Lifes sloppy desolation decayed spread in a thousand wasted breaths. Reluctantly a horrible divinity bleeds through delineated space into emotionless silence. What about your plummeting smile? I'd be anything pacing the world road, not the little boy drowning forever in his inward graveyard. He penetrates dark brooding holiness languid speechless into the familiar. Zen bro standing forth for silence. Their beast stranded answered ambivalence, noise, and time lost. I mean, towards single nothingness. What room got purgatory?

The surging pulsation hangs over dark impulses and collapsing famished over the corpse of human condition. One interjects bullshit and ponders Gods surrealistic scraping of reality permeated by crude psychic vampires. His smile is nothing but teeth and redemption.... dark holiness same as fuck, quickly collapsing into annihilation, comfortable retro emanation. The stars will rise as part of my God, and I see no end, I just want to see the inside of a sudden want, to consider moving from infinity to be here and all the rest of the morning. There is truth to remove the bare bones. I want to dream, to be obsolete, blind, or some shit. I want to err on the side of imagination.

I want to see my hand in front of my face. I want to break the silence. Even when I have degraded the eyes are sunken; at the hearing in the past and not the future, which is formed in the great big now. This is not of God which is dirty at the universe quietly. Mosquito? Is this God? But he said of the day (buzzzzz) in ear - crushing or walk of life - this is the sound of gold after the lights and shadows dance in the picture of God.

God is not God, silent whispers one thousand thoughts. We will focus on death when it will result in no change. A mixture of sounds and the sunken eyes of God - this is another dream of solitude. His heart stopped beating in favor of silence.

 

 

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