Sweven

Friday 16th

Vultures & Swine
Vultures circle, wheeling, whipping, and chopping away chunks of childhood sky. "Hide!" someone cries. "When pigs fly," says I. "But they are flying. Right above us. Hide!" the someone cries again. Never!" I declare. "What are you doing here? FUCK OFF!" my ragged voice serenades those unwanted. To punctuate I flip twin birds at flying swine. They circle closer. Closer. Set hoof to the north. Trot this way. They hunt a murder suspect connected to the bloodlines of my yester-home.

Some Hero
A flash dead, red, and black slashes back stampedes empire cats.

Old Trail
In a neighborhood freshly stolen and stacked and old time trail still slithers. Its tail is slender but its head is a swollen graveyard of metal beasts and burdens.


Saturday 17th

Arid
Brooks and beds are coughing dust. Wells are sad and scabbed with rust. Green grows ever dimmer. From above, they laugh at our arid mother. Below, laughter is softly smothered by serpents of twisted sand.

Ice Cave
In cherished caves of ice we shine. Swing from icicle to icicle. Slide from sheet to sheet. A lone scruff tumbles in to stake a claim. I raise false swords and whetted words. He tumbles away. We return to our play.