tea for the goth, toast to the grieving

September 28, 2009

wandzia crop



we have all died all of us. the tips of our fingernails are cracked and yellowed. everyday they sink a little deeper into the earth. it’s very funny for us to lie here. underground, in the heavy wet soil, with the fat worms. and the tiny red spider things that fascinate the living. look how small they are! they tickle us, too. 


we have all died all of us right here. out on the road and our bellies torn open by vultures gleam bright red in the sun. we are happy. look how beautiful we’ve become! we are happy because no one has killed us. we have died.


we have all died at some point, i think. on the point of some sword. my lover put his through my belly. it was an accident. he didn’t see me sneaking up on him.


humans sprouting up around us. they grow from seeds of ours. they are seedlings of ours. they have fallen near and farther from our rotting corpses…green like they were moss-covered. the beautiful dead like fallen trees warmed by the family lives of centipedes. worm hole, termite bite, and the prettiest red-orange wood-pulp flesh.


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