In Mourning
by Rage


The walls are dingy.  It's covered in the sort of
pattern that's been showing up in the background of 
all those photos with the empty blond models. It's 
decadent.

But if he's feeling anything, it's the exact opposite.
Steady drip of tap on cold porcelin strikes his skull
like a thousand tapdancers skittering on skin. Bottles
on the left, broken glass on the right.  He remembers
that he'd figured out a rhythm.  

The wallpaper blurs and sways its flower petaled wings,
dipping and looping and twisting in his eyes.  It just
makes the place in his skull between his eyebrows hurt.

So he closes his eyes.  

Cold hard against his cheek, a sliver of reflective
white.  The only truely white thing in the place, 
everything had long lost its lustre, newness a long 
gone memory.  But this, he'd made sure it shone, 
retained it's purity, an untouched haven for his 
sisters.

Pretty pretty pretty
I name you Bernice and Disleria and Alffredo

red
golden speckled twisty red luster

Like mother's wig

Clementa has died.
Had died.

And was swept away into her liquid grave, an automatic
coffin.

Ezra said she would go to her heaven in a shiny gown of
liquid.  That arriving in a box was just going to get 
her laugehd at.  Clementa was always the vain one.

Flip drain
Smash

With practiced wrist movements, lukewarm fuzziness coats
his tongue and down his chin where it spread in tingling
pools across his chest.  Like liquid Poprocks.

Here's to you.



-end