sinoniem.

medicine is no exact science,

but Doctor Physician’s patients still always die.



one would think the line between surgery and slice/dice would be less fine.



it takes a steady hand to navigate amalgamous waters,

let alone the use of a scalpel.

the [ ] doctor blames Giles de Tourettes for his difficulties in the OR,

but a playwright would likely pinpoint motivation as the main concern;

sharp objects put into the hands of those with something to prove never bodes well,

and there’s no room at the table for practitioners and their chips. 



and then there’s the mask to consider -
the white gauze which is meant to soften the pronouncements made by the orifice it covers
simply works to muffle it,

and will never conceal his eyes.


those unnervingly blood red eyes.



one is supposed to shrink from the sight of spilling crimson,

not respond to it.

perhaps that’s part of the problem.

Dr. Physician’s ‘patients’ will never know.

demeler.

you already know lilith’s story.

everyone knows lilith’s story.

& yet, somehow no one knows lilith’s story.

ladies & gentlemen: the problem.

& so she takes to weaving it from bits of tangled string unthreaded from swallows’ homes

with knitting needles newly found & freely flexed,

sharpened to a point by reality & the doings of man & the prefix wo-.

there’s much more to come,

but not much to be done.

& lilith knows it.

cleaning the kitchen again while watching all the counts rise,

she laments the theory of the first pancake

& offers a prayer to st. jude.

omsvep.

mildred has a box.

it’s a big box.

mildred’s box is filled with stones.

there’s a lot of stones.

sometimes, she throws them.

others, she fills her pockets with them before going on long jogs.

& still others, she counts them.

they’re magical stones - overflowing with conundrums.

mildred hates them, but uses them for ID at bars sometimes.

they stay hidden under her bed, tucked safely away in their ebony square,

until someone walks into the room.

then she begins the ‘displaying them proudly with seeming reluctance’ game.

she’s quite good.

yes, mildred has a box of rocks.

or does the box of rocks have mildred?

sanhi.

the clack of her strict black boots delighting her with every step,

Enna circles her charge & puts on her game face.

she’s not being paid to look pretty... er, menacing, after all.

she pats her patient on the rump & lets her hand slide up the girl’s spine & close around her throat. lowering her gaze to match her charge’s, she squeezes.

‘alright, my darling. game time is now over. playtime, however, is just beginning.’

making sure he’s watching,

Enna brings the whip over her head & down on the girl’s back in one swift, clean motion.

the customer’s eyes burn with desire.

the charge utters not a sound,

& faints.

occupational hazard.

kesan.

Enna french inhales & gives the whip a crack for effect -

some fetishes tend to overlap.

the charge looks up at her,

eyes sunken & will-less;

complete control -

it’s a nice job perk.

letting the black leather slither & snake across the backs of the girl’s bare thighs,

Enna moves to check the bindings.

they’re holding perfectly. this one barely struggles at all.

she-bari’s still got it, she thinks, then laughs aloud abruptly at herself.

gotta love a little mental domme-humor to break up the night.

she flicks her cigarette & steadies her hand for a second blow.

[shrug]

it’s a living.

leuto.

Sorella misses the hot water.

pulsing beads on back,

fire slipping down throat.

scorching beat playing on fingers spread wide, wide, wide for the receiving,

the clean burn dancing dark like demons on all hallow’s eve.

Sorella misses the cold water.

cubes of paralyzed molecules clinking about,

making a tasty ruckus & giving off steam a-plenty

turning skin pink like its literal polar opposite -

the same, but different.

Sorella misses the water.

those Above don’t realize that their damn search for delicious ended years ago -

the answer resides within the last chapter.

it’s temperature, temperature!

liquid & temperature.

Sorella sighs.

Sorella longs.

agulla.

Ezra’s chugging,

but the lactose level just won’t decrease.

(what’s our meaning? you decide.)

fourth wall broken,

let’s watch, dear reader

as the gallon challenge becomes the old man & the sea.

(‘s all in the references.)

this milky moby dick will not be caught

& our hero oughtn’t be doomed to fail;

might happen regardless.

so the sorrowed sisyphus rolls on,

not realizing he possesses the power to

invert

convert

subvert

tip the boat & total the car, Icarus!

release the safety belt & try your wings for once, man!

take your way out!

he won’t. can’t. something.

we just sigh & call him Ishmael.

kurek.

destruction breeds destruction

& setting her one-eyed gaze on the physician’s assitant,

Minerva made a mess.

you may have seen the body count in the papers?

but these are desperate, gorgeous times

& zombies walk the earth when the spirit moves.

out of ammo,

she stoppered up her burning lungs, shouldered her shotty,

& embraced the good Mr. Tandy come alive again,

knowing it might well be the last she’d ever bestow upon another form

(read this with romanticism rolling on your mental reel-to-reel, dear reader)

& so they skipped (gore-lumbered) into the sunset,

Minerva clutching her bandolier,

Tandy’s fingers twitching ‘round his guns -

necromancers & abhorsens both,

staring down their humanity.

facing facts never looked so good.

sentim.

Yvaine is collapsing beneath the weight of imploding galaxies.

celestial bodies don’t always dance; sometimes they stumble,

& in the space of those faltered steps, there is a kind of painful silence -

the sort that descends when someone voices a question

& no one knows the answer.

the wrench is gone, or at least, she can’t feel its weight in her palms any longer

& the stars have ceased to consult her before moving on or off their orbital patterns.

a layman’s hands are his welfare,

& so, it seems this month she starves.

(& at the word, Enna cracks a smile)

heavenly bodies may well be the answer to one of these ‘unanswerables’,

but system overload is the main malfunction of this engine;

the diagnostic readout has been screaming it in little red digital rat pellets for days now.

sigh, sigh, sigh.

it never rains but it pours.