The Ink Sepulchre

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In the dark alcoves of the desolate world, there are stories left lonesome and festering. The ink sepulchre exists to house these dreadful tales and provide them with proper accomodation, because even the most putrid things deserve a home.



There was once a bandit. There was once a knife. There was once an axle. The world kept spinning. The bandit stuck the knife into the axle. The coach faltered. The lady cried out. The world kept spinning. The lady spat her tooth on the ground. The bandit ground her horses into glue. The coach was rotting. The world kept spinning. There was once a lady. The lady had the knife. She spun the axle and broke his bones on the wheel. The bandit looked upon a barren white mask. He could smell the roses. The world kept spinning. Those horses still breathe. The bandit saw through his window. He drew the knife. His white flesh lay in dry strips. The world kept spinning. The axle is part of a great machine. It has no memory as it turns forever. Salt water seeps through the hull. Roses bloom as it grinds and rattles. The world kept spinning. The bandit is blind. He reaches for his eyes, only to find that he has no hands. He wants to call for help, but he has no mouth to open. He doesn’t breathe air anymore. The world kept spinning. The lady laughs. After millenia, she once again dons her mask. Her grasp on the knife is steadfast. She sticks it in the coaches’ joints. The world kept spinning. The axle clenched its fingers. The axle felt the cold air sting its new lungs. The axle had eyes to see. Those eyes close in on the knife. The world kept spinning. The horses spread their wings and siphon the bandit through their proboscis. The axle feels nothing. The axle stands up in search of its query. Fingers lilting on the hilt of the lady. The world kept spinning. The axle stomps on the rose. The axle can see through the Bandit. The Bandit stuck the knife into the axle. The world fell from its perch. There was once an axle. There was once a knife. There was once a Bandit.

Short Love Poems

Lipless, listless, reckless,
Reeling in Autumn sun,
Not resting on the bank,
Eyes wide and grasping at
Hidden necks and carotid

Wildly, widely, deadly,
Dueling Don Quixote,
You dip between blades,
Shoulders grind into stone
Let the grist of the world
Fill your lungs.

Callous, phallis, malice
inches from your words,
Yet you will never change,
Swinging scythe of time deposed,
Who left you with the kid?
Baby in bathwater,
The bilge of puffy sores.

Round Robin

Brazen was the younger girl,
She picked the cherry tree;
While mother sat and saw her son,
Scraping at his knee.
“What devil has you in his clutch?”
The mother slid right in.
“‘Tis Belial of the silver tongue,
I must pay for Robin’s sin.”

Little lady tied to the mast
Red volley beating down.
Clever laughter of the bow,
“Let fire be her crown!”
Yet sudden did it loose,
And an arrow let her slip.
She dove into the puddle
Of twilight’s sinking ship.

What fool may think a bird to swim?
A fish might fly away?
You never doubt belial’s pride
Nor pity at dismay.
Her hands she wills to knotted oars,
That gullet starts to burn.
Brother looks behind the tree,
For now, it’s Robin’s turn.