A Little Remorse

Regret dances and tortures like a ballerina with bleeding soles. A dance that follows a dying salmon.

A little remorse is good for you. Like air and oxygen is good for the salmon.

Death by a Thread

A woman with fingers as thin as needles, pale as the snow that surrounds her, and as grim as a hundred funerals.

Her room, as beautiful as the southernmost pole of the untouched Antarctic, is surrounded with black mold.

“Let me tear my throat! I have to clean it!” She screams while ripping her skin thin as rice paper.

The mold hides depper inside each pore and vessel that screams for liberation. Soft fingers wipe the mold, cleaning the blood.

A smile stretches her face. Now she needs stitches. Hundreds of yards of white cloth thread seems into her pink flesh. 

She laughs with irresistible charm until her face is shut. She is scared. Terrified of restraint. Of death fr restraint.

The thread closes and ties into beautiful bows. A dozen little gifts never to be opened. Death by a thread.

Written 

I wrote my joy of when the brothers would be dead and everyone would dance and no celebrate, screaming for a congratulations from some benevolent being, or maybe just myself.

I wrote my sadness of when he took my foot and jabbed a rusty hook into the sole and the spear broke through it into the open world! What joy.

I wrote until my hand shriveled and I shriveled. I sit and wait for the world to finish shriviling. I can finish writting.

Dented Fin.

I left the water

Dragging my corpse with the strength of my remaining limbs.

One is dented. Broken and pierced by a hook laced with shimmering ruby 

Deadly sapphire.

The glow repairs sights, blessed my pupils. But not my fin.

Whether in Trenches Or

Whether in trenches or

trapped in corners of a porcelain room or

the empty crates of the dark moon or

the hearts of the miserable people or

in the sub-conscious desires of good men,

the sins the war the blood the wishes

blossom like tulips overfed.

Iniciales: The Rejection of Modern Shame.

In the chaotic realm of Spain in the 1930s, many circles of socialism and anarchism formed to replace the outdated monarchy and the simmering fascist dissidents who wanted God and order to take center stage. Most of these factions dedicated their lives and bodies to save the world with Marxism and other utopian ideals. A handful of these groups avoided the world, ignored the growing battles to find comfort and health in the beginning of the modern era. The wild men and women of Spain, the nudists and naturists, hid from technology and vices to take part in mankind’s natural destiny.

Let the world die and enjoy the sun with your tender skin.

Then comes Iniciales, a short-lived magazine that published essays on anarchism, naturism, sex, education, dance, and criticisms against drugs and alcohol.

“Nudism is an elixir for sexual embarrassment. Nudism is the elixir to ennoble thoughts and to give life and beauty to the body. Nudism is health, nobility, and freedom.” Translated from the cover of Iniciales Magazine.