euananthony

crushed in your palmthese crumbs you spreadare no sustenance for life why must you feed me so little and kick me when you find me starvedif you wish tosee me perishcup your empty hands around the flame crumbs everywherewhere will they leadI follow the pathpicking upeach one their taste lingersan echo of your lovealways follownever… — read more

My ex came to me in a dream last night, and told me he missed me, then shot me dead. The funniest thing was, as he made his kill, you were in the next room asleep in bed. What do you think that means? I’m scared to ask my Tarot said we’d break up, remember?… — read more

Can I take a step back in? Or do the waves rise too steeply before me? Where has the writer been, you may wonder, for it has been the passing of a moon or two since they bore out their story for their empty auditorium of faceless spectors. Where have they been then? Occupied. Saturated… — read more

The writer returns. Stories have surged past their conscience over the last few days, but none belong to them. London. So rich in inspiration. So rich in so many things. But not space. Oh, I missed you, sweet Clutha, missed your rich brown eyes and the flecks of memory swirling within. Let me drift away.… — read more

Flesh sucking flesh. Blueberry bruises upon golden skin. Look how these corpulent bodies hang from the vines. Just one taste. . . The scent of nectarine lingers with each kiss. Juice splatters. Dionysus, what have you done? Your raspberry red lips leave stains of madness on my face. I cannot stop.  Aftermath. We slip from… — read more

Janice works from home. She walks two hundred steps a day. Bed to sofa, sofa to desk, desk to sofa, sofa to bed. Sometimes she doesn’t manage the last step. Her meals arrive with the mail, frozen and encased in plastic. The red spicy one is her favourite. It’s the way the tang makes her… — read more

Where are we going? The writer gazes into an inky black tunnel. Cats’ eyes punctuate its dark ceiling. Checkpoints and exit signs mark its walls. Somewhere in the distance is the end, is the light, but they cannot look at it directly, only glimpse it out of the corner of their eyes. Mischevious thing. It… — read more

Hollow. They shake their head, hoping something might fall out, but it doesn’t. It’s empty. They lift it up, press their eye against their ear and peer into the dark tunnel. Is anyone in there? But there’s no reply, not even an echo. Some days are like this. The writer stares at the dishes drying… — read more

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