three tickets to an untimely collapse

by Beatrice Bowers

buried names, of which the most spear-headed come rising from the cages of molars, slicing past the edifice where verities and casualties lie intertwined. a resurrection called for by an unctuous thespiaen hunter who painted his lungs blue for love (that’s what the books say). with a name comes ashes, ashes, and no room for salvation this time.

a sharp pull, and metal relented to hands that ran miles from the body. skin poured forth anger from fissures that have executed the verbal death of thousands, perhaps more. perhaps they will be the one, and the more. the callous night would slink back into silence, curling itself around them for protection.

the guillotine falls when it may. with a blade racing towards the most intimate place on the map, our conditions are revealed to be an oversight. endings are written before beginnings, especially in the soiled tails cowering with fear.