Reveal - Revel Affixed, there you can see the image. A mute tomb swathed in fresh earth, the fertile loam of a citrus spring, no name, why would they give her a name? she’s a little rotten tooth in a impoverishment's dry mouth, one of a hundred extracted by scythe and ghost each day. It’s being savoured by the ghoul, this graven image, making the glutton on the salty filth of skin remember eternal, devouring the portrait of this place until its ornate in the gallows of his disquieted mind. The body anesthetized, the mind feels all, still and taciturn as the resting place.
They’d latched onto her in the night by the crook of her dainty arm, said they, those swift creatures which slither from around red brick dust, issuing forth the cold steam of distilled shadows from corners, from underneath, whiskey-tongue and vein-fed they stole her. Full, Hel-faced moon, half-dead, half-alive. Runny yolk, and her pointed shoes with poverty’s holes still stolen from her lifeless body... alone, the trickling corpse shared a cart with all the nameless others on its bumpy ride to the hole where the dead go. A number had fallen off, shaken loose onto the street, a sight for young children to marvel over. Prematurely becoming acquainted with death.
His sibling, the street-walker, the constellations of freckles, the grin missing teeth, the dragon’s blood hair.
He was not himself of late, he was not here when she perished, he was aloft as Eden’s snake, as the exiled black wolf. The butcher and the mouthless muse, a sunken garden and a coagulated crime. He’d never felt so free.
And now he is caged with a key, an emergency exit illuminated villain’s shrine, he knows not where she is. Above, below, in a river, a corpse bride floating home. She was the only person he loved. He never even loved his own mother.
The other image is in the gallery, the image of the two girls, the crawling and the dead, and the insides coming out, as he rushes from that mocking rock! That lie of a grave! She is not here, she did not die!
“WACHIT!” a shoulder has collided with his, a twitch of pain and unease, the groundskeeper. No remorse on his phantom face, unshaven and gaunt. Grey and black and pink, wine-stained mouth.
The grey man, deflated ghost, shouts after our fleeing man as he continues to rush out.
“YOU’N DO YERSELF WELL ‘N BLOODY WACHIT, JACK! OR SOME LESS PATIENT O’ MAN WILL RIP YOU APART!”