Sex and Murder Magazine

By Michael Mc Aloran

…Unto this garbage, these wasted eyes, in the clear night, suffocating heat of laughter, a cracked vase filled with dead orchids, the deft swing of the curve skinned as the sky’s tears, electrical sadness in the depths of the swelling brow, something turning with blackened teeth and vibrant eyes, the air more dense than shit, in the break-neck silence, my dread, sweat seeping through my skin, pissing my final death, death holy atrophy, I am dead as the sweet final tears of a dying whore throat slashed in some abandoned alleyway, denuded, knickers stuffed into her smeared mouth, there, somewhere else, anywhere, in that final field something longing never asking, as if it could, as if it mattered, even the shadows no longer matter, the cries in the night of hyenic death, love’s gouged eyes, spit, cum, blood, excrement, I die, and in this death I see nothing, I see that I am nothing, such is the temperature, the pared bone’s of silence drifting out from beneath the eyelids, spilling from nowhere, this is nowhere, I lack, I laugh I am this burgeoning finality, severed fingers strewn like confetti into the depth’s of an open grave, listless violence, a happy home, my insane tongue, drifting I pacify like death, seeking to shovel dusts, the dust’s of my memory, at which point it all fades, is gathered by the winds in a cleft of sorrow, no not ever to have known nor to have been, in the darkness, where the worms suckle upon my dead cock, my fading flesh, I spit, someone asked, I never explained, what does it matter, deft heart of obscenity, the grief of my silence, the tongue torn out, the words spilling their death, in my anti-life, in this anguish, shadow-boxing with time, a slavery, a wager, arbitrary despair, the windows implode, shattered glass scattered across these wounds, how now my desolate, I tear from you as you tear from me, this is no love, I am sickened, perhaps, with some longing, a longing leaps from the branches of the trees late at night, I am noose, razorblade, pill and powder, fresh flowers weep in the gallion breath, abattoir of mockery, abattoir of rotting flesh, abattoir of dissipation, screams like bolts of lightning from the depths of this useless human meat, I am tears of blood, I shed no tears for anyone else, dead as alive, adrift, my head in a vice of cold colours, I inhale, the birthed treachery of the air, I inhaled it, as if coming up for breath from having been drowned, skull-death of obituary, dragging it kicking and screaming from the beginning, no I do not want to leave, yet I do not want to stay, either, something has shaken the fruit from the razor tree, they sparkle upon rent soil in the moonlight, I laugh because I cannot believe myself, that this is, I subtract from death’s irrelevance, with some sense, deepening the wounds, I am the skyline, I am the aborted sun, I am the disfigured sneer, I am the slash-hook of my emasculation ejaculating the blood of one thousand ruptures, as the winds subside, someone has locked the door to this barren room, as I no longer exist, nor have ever been, a smear of blackened bruised flesh draped in the nightscapes of this foreign absence…