Gretch, queen of the drunken underworld, scurrying madly through rust drain pipes and the rotten organs of Sanctuary One, she spoke wildly of these: the peppered faces of unborn tranquilizers. "I can't remember what I just said" Cried the homeless man, one foot out to kiss her legs and send her kneeling...
Try Two:
Sadly, we woke without you. Rain in the hair, body in cold air shivering fast. Crayola tshirt mechanics, elegant in the ocean breeze (stealing fates all over the fucking place). Go home, but come home soon. Suns rise rarely at the end of the world. I forgot what my reaction was when you told me you wanted to be there.
Try Three:
She broke your windpipe with the blow of a kiss, sharp. "It's a hit or miss!" She cried, oven mitts on her hands, her voice on your skull like sand paper. Wearing a glass of wine, breaking the news, rinsing her mouth of the words that she chews.
Try Four:
Forty-somethings on a Rampage! Kill all Kill all! Kick them in the neck, bash them in the brains, gun them in the knees, cut 'em up cut 'em up baby cut - them - up. "He's what a temper tantrum dreams of being" Rats would say. Scarily enough my head spoke first. Wrapped like mummies, organs in a jar. The simple click, a distant Oh, and hell loose and my bones breaking on cement stairwells already covered in someone else's blood.
Try Five:
It's five o'clock and the survivors are climbing, barely.
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