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Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Anthony Wintering - Ghost Womb


The Grave Underneath the Ritual Stone


Inklike void, retinas adjust to somber melancholy, humidity laced in nines duplicating charcoal,

endless nihility. Black mist like swollen noise or poisoned veins. Ritual stones bloodied, buried,

and forgotten, cherishing memories like ruins of broken mirrors. Upkeep lapsing, rusted nails shave

snow from tortured, forsaken bones. Catacombs smothered in decayed wine, spawning dread like funnel

clouds of osmosis. Unnatural whispers when breaths barely escape. Pikes of apprehension. Blades of

instability. Becoming heroic to insatiable chains and thirsty hooks. Those apparitions like wind

chimes that dance under stormy moons. An inhuman blue-grey. The catalyst to destroy description.

Frigid from fright. Lungs of dust, hearts of ash. Ravaged flags as tourniquets for gangrenous limbs

poisoned by unknown's chill. Draining the pus from gory boils. Gaping scars of nameless terror.

Malignant eyes always upon me. Monuments of afflicting paradigm.


sara's nightmare (neon black possession)


this is all so perverse

wicked and malformed

looks of scars

smells of stains

cement staircases are storyless when penniless

dulling the sharp sting of fresh spring air

five stories high comes the advent smell of rain

this is all so pointless

alluring as well as annoying

What it builds in context

it lacks in cohesion

inappropriate rapture

reverb of silence


sullen terror campaign

the waterdrops bend at an awkward axis

and explode on landing

a flash of red

thunderclap disembowelment

shadows return to shadows

this is all so cryptic.

lost in memories

lack of translation

fractures of truth

we only appreciate finality.

cumshot dreamscapes

taken into the sky by superheated energy

takes a storm to claim some souls

takes a death for people to pay attention




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