[Untitled]
By E.L. Winston

The sister had two eyes facing upward, one closed and the other upon the sky; heaven-bound peering at the bunged mass. Pupil dilating upon its twin, bleeding out the iris beneath the veined spider limbed lid. Leery, urging itself against the optic nerve, the socket of the woundless grasping to help the other. Finally, upon breaking the socket and nose it arrived in a gaping cyclops cavity with the other. Its sister eye, unbeknownst to the one seeking to be savior, had long since become a parasite and devoured it whole. The frowns of the face caved with the exertion of feast-full lard. Now, with every organ dissipated the parasite fled from the aging corpse. The eye had been lying face up, and was the last to decease. In the belly of the parasite, it had melted into oblivion, tentacles now connecting its juices within the rest of the parasite’s small frame. Each throbbing artifice bulged with the dinner of iris and pupil. The last memory was of the craving sun, gag ball in place, unable to warn and it’s very own eyes unwilling.
While Fire in the daylight sky once symbolized fear in the minds of the feeble. Now dances with rays of emotions bowing in the air like arrows falsely resembling themselves with felt edges instead of steel. The first light of the sun edged its way from the horizon to her eyes, like a rapist entrapping thought without answering as to why.
The bodies flickered in and out of view as the static overcame them. No one lasts for long in the medicated landscape. When freedom is figured out and control is destroyed it takes away their need to understand their illusions.
God forbid they remember the ambulances that drowned in the vast swamp of memories, the end of their own kind screaming unto oblivion.
The children of holiness have lost their touch as she echoes from them and no one ever ravaged a piece of her own flesh. Intriguing meaning into others, suffering rings in my ears: anxiety entraps loneliness. The war will not end in the fire and in the clay. The molded shit you have thrust upon me and the fiery paradise you gave the ones whose skins are formed by you. The syringe sinks deep into clay like fixtures, lips like zeroed images of faith leap out only to be burned by the calloused.
These memoirs have not been lifelike as they are long dead in the remembrances of a rebellion not soon enough lost beneath the pitchfork. A needle spawning past ambivalences leaving behind it a scent of blood lingering here now, and the wounds are not quite shut as the shroud is only half veiling you. I sought out your real illusion, the trust-fund baby of your counter culture tracking you down with lost expertise. Remembering myself in mirrored eyes, past the agony of your antagonist little deaths. Oh, like a baby in the belly you will swell up and pop out of me. As a delinquent you will betray the very thought of youth and bare a fruit that evil hath not sown. You, the new breed, the child of everlasting fear. Shoot me up; bind my arm with your superficial reality of right and wrong. Little shortcomings mean nothing when they come from your mouth. Oh, dear, flirtation is the key devise. Little birthdays in the middle of winter, left over from last years you call me only with something else in your bird head. The epidemic has spread quickly; you’re soft doll brain distinguished more with thoughts that do not dissolve. Rusty movements and loss of fugitives, I have not been caught because you were not looking for me. Enticing me to wake up with a headache that has boiled at the back of my head for years now and there's a candle at the base of my voice box that won't die out. I wish it would, it's starting to smoke and the fire is suffocating. I walked downtrodden through the winding tiny streets of this town; I am like every child who survived the epidemic. I see them in the corners, behind illuminated screens, we do not trust each other, and disappointments are too much to bear in early adulthood as we all well know by now.
I had a vision of the craving sun dying; its head was grasped entirely by that of the holy ones. The hand reaching out of the thigh, and wings bent. Feathers mucked in sweat, breast against breast and staring me down.
Waif child lift down your empty hand, you gaze into mirrors of poverty mimicked by the insolent consumer society….
And this is my upbringing, a race to get out.

 

 

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