empty boxes and black shelves of her occult books. 

here a ring under a scarf, she thought one of her spirits stole it, and there a small journal of spells, pungent with the perfume of leaves from her garden. 

the last note a paragraph on resurrections. 

I miss my friend… 


Memories of Us

died; got all of his possessions. 

dungeon load of music, hellish crime scene photos, memories of us. 

clothes; got all of her soul, Nikotine™. 

Old and crusty Make-up; didn’t know he wore any, magazines of self-loathing, rusty blades for his angry fur. 

faded memories of us. 

nothing more.


flailing under weighted blankets with the world’s sniggering vitriol dampening my resolve which never was up to it anyway like everything else or everyone I’ve known, few as they may be, and diminished by time and the noise of my tentacled senses holding me under, I can’t breathe. 

Release me.