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My Ink is Dark, My Eye Darker Still (Or: How To Build a Better Horror Writer)

I root for possibilities
cloistered among the charnel and the chum
sifting, sorting, weighing
hacking meaning from the shadows that hide
between darkness and light

A fisher of deep waters
my mind channels the residued dreamlets
of a diligent, mudstained, resurrectionist
beheaded by the spade of a pissed-off sexton
my unclaimed clay, rotting in the mosh of a potter’s field

a sniper, a dissectionalist, a microscope slide
the gun slits of my vision scraped clean
by a road-killed squeegee-bum
let me peel your eyelids back and stitch them wide and staring
tilting your head back like an artist’s easel

You romanticists, squealing blithely of the hope
that glows within the heart of a pastel-hued sunrise
my ink is dark, my eye darker still
the hell-wheel you call the sun isn’t shining
it’s burning down.

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