---

 

	enjoy this writing from Mike Brennan in the cc&d free 2014 PDF file chapbook: Postcards from Exile    (click on the front cover image or the title text to download the free PDF file, available with two different covers)				You can also order this release as a 2014 6" x 9" perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book! Click on the cover spread for the book Postcards from Exile

Order this writing in the book the Beaten Path (a Down in the Dirt Jan. - June 2014 collection book)		get the 372 page Jan. - June 2014 Down in the Dirt magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

My Rack

Mike Brennan

    With a full moon fried into my cranium’s miasma, dark spirits stampeded all that lies between flesh and plasma, lapping lethargy from a bottle of the grimmest nostalgia, whose perfume’s vapors incited the syphilis tinged sweats of an infernal fever whose stabbing currents crashed chaotically towards my constantly hollowing core.

    Bringing along a bellowing of new hatreds for my cancer armored heart of displaced amour, as if wolves had torn straight through death’s dead-bolt doors, by distilling simple sin-filled screaming like wounded soldiers buried under their comrades corpses, all just rustic tin relics of a coward’s monetary war.

    So reaching the highest hallways to join history’s heroic portraits, veiling such sensitive life for narcotic legend that tells lies that no tongue would have dared speak before.
    The Venus De Milo claps her hands at the closing of this box of sordid conditions, scarring childhood’s arms ancient beyond recognition, like two trains taken off track with hell’s humor for mismatched connections, and the tragedy of touring all these ruins from the unforgiving & forged fathoms burrowed beneath the floor.

    Where paupers pray to the plumpest of poppies and sermonize in hoarse-throated harmony, all the hope for a home away from the hands that keeps the days dancing for fool’s gold gleaming with ghastly glues that bind tighter than all the vices combined, which stealthily slips the hang-man’s noose over the hexed realization of a prophetic doom, all too insane with devices to even imagine never-less ignore.

    But hounded by sickening hunger, the narcissist turns grey at the gates of forever, his canes snapping and his hats flattening, until the thoughtless head is severed to see, that the worst torture will always be, that the absolutely most agonizing of pains will evermore be possible to be enjoyed & not just politely predicted & evenhandedly endured.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...