What's inside a poet's bag?
i. a starving monster. it's rigid crimson in the ocean of pulsating blue. a godless little thing on a sunday afternoon, so full of despair and an unholy appetite. ii. an ancient tongue made of poison and treachery — no mercy, no cure. it drips at midnight for all the sinners to lick off the traces of some forgotten curse. iii. a regular sized muse hunting quill and an old parchment stained with grief stricken blood. iv. a perforated heart and a meathook to hang it by the mantel. one pair of rusty shackles to chain it to its maggot existence. v. a vial full of salted river — extracted from the frozen veins of the poet's amygdala. kept with utmost care to wash off all the scream trapped inside the blueprint of a non existent home. vi. broken bones and blackened marrow to build a mighty hecatomb, for death is just another black liquorice served on a subzero platter. vii. secondhand happiness borrowed from a love forsaken eternity. piles of ashened letters to bury the smoldering...