Anthony Valade and Linda M. Rhinehart Neas


Photo by: Linda M. Rhinehart Neas

Hives. By Anthony Valade

Here they are all sitting in a line, fit for prince of death and decay.
Left to survive, it’s just a gratuity of gravity pulling you towards the torn core; obscenity.

Let’s be realistic – there’s no chance of a firing squad in the yard, it’s just the splattering bodies on the windshield of a car.

News broke out, the detection of an inoculated semi-hypertension glance.

And the sun exploded behind a smokescreen of clouds causing the sky to emulate fire.

Corrosive flash and as it burned, eyes dried sinking in the cavity, but only people who dared to look at the ending.

Skin blistered, popping red hot flesh.
Clothes set ablaze, including hair and the breath.
White tinted razor blade winds cutting through necks,
People ripping skin right off of their chest,
All fluids leaking like congealed gravy and then evaporating.

Just like that,


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