Just Eventide by Kirk James Ward & Weatherer Dan

Author:Kirk, James Ward & Weatherer, Dan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ghostley Books
Published: 2017-08-24T00:00:00+00:00

Fluxa Finem

(Fleeting End)

Small, so small as to be invisible,

I feel their touch.

Countless armies move over my body,

My flesh becoming their home.

I wash, I scrub,

I make my skin red and sore.

Yet still they march,

And sickness rides with them.

I see them now,

Of fear I’m free.

I see them now,

On you, not me.

Sepsis

It was a troubled and broken sleep

Which night deemed fit to bestow upon me, last.

Seldom do I rest with peace,

This I freely admit.

Yet the images that my subconscious conjured that night

Haunt me during these arduous hours of wake.

For though the sun beat mercilessly upon my kin,

Whispering of promise and untold delight,

I seek solitude in the shadows.

Away from the babble of those detestable masses.

Away from the fragrance of bodies complaining against the heat.

Away.

With thoughts of that cursed house,

Am I entertained.

Crumbling and rotten,

My enforced home.

How could I forget those weeping walls?

Crying tears of maggots,

Bulbous and lithe.

And other nightmarish creatures

That have no place,

No right to exist.

I remember knowing, however this might be,

(For logic escapes the realm of the dream).

That this festering place was to be at once my home and my prison,

and that nothing I had accomplished, or might ever so, would grant me the mercy of release.

To rid myself of such visions,

And to embrace the day

(As best I might, as best as able),

I took my son (not but one year of age),

Out into the light of the morning

and the promise of the day.

Though the streets were deserted,

(For the hour was still young),

There was left an indelible trail of the chaos,

Left by that hellish night past.

It seemed that while I languished,

Lost betwixt the Hells of my mind,

Others did revel,

And drink,

And fuck,

Leaving their filth behind,

As passage for which my boy and I must tread.

Such was the depth of squalor that my infant son,

His legs stubby and short, struggled to walk.

I, ever the doting father, pulled him free from the grime,

And waded knee deep,

Fighting against the tide of discarded beer cans, torn chip trays, and soiled condoms.

What manner of degeneration have I stumbled into?

A drunken fuck, no more than a moments release,

Soon forgotten amidst a haze of vodka and weed.

Her, writhing amid the squalor that litters the ground.

Him, urged on by the crowd of baying strangers.

Their tangled scent lingers.

My son wrinkles his nose in disgust.

I fight the urge to vomit.

Pity our children so innocent born,

Exposed to the vermin of those that we are duty bound to call neighbours,

While out walking with Father,

One sunny morn.

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