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The odd word sometimes slips out
I mean nothing by it
It's just human instinct
I say what I mean in the passions of such clout
Offended?
Then sorry
Or am I?
Get a grip woman,
It's just a word that instinctively rolled from my mouth
Well if you don't like this then see me when drunk
I'll tear you to pieces
I'll shatter your dreams
And leave this room dirtier than that of a skunk
Spraying the kerbside with thoughts of a madman
Speaking such truths
Littering the graves of such inbuilt angst
Whilst wittering away and dancing the can-can
Dont try and stop me as this is my food
Living on this tribal urge
The surrounding men have given up their surge
So sorry for being so rude.
Passing a cathedral in my home town one thoughtful eventide
my sight collided with an old sculpture of ****** Mary with halo
and i saw ornamental fountain spraying close to the figure
so oft I had winked at the object under night’s camouflage.

I walked on my toes to reach a height and i looked above the fence
so I can see the cathedral’s old looking windows I love seeing
women, men and cupid were painted on it and silhouettes,
florescent shimmering from inside helped moon revealed the arts.

A dark skinned man was passionately blowing a cornet in the cathedral
the harmonious tunes he produced hypnotized few into dancing,
I saw two women close to the entrance door – both fair.
One was holding a book that seemed to be the Christian Holy book
one was wearing a butter-yellow blouse as she danced and clapped.

“Isn’t that Mrs John by the door?” the slim seven month old widow
i saw the salty sea drops her eyes released on her mourning gown,
but she seemed strong after our loss, after her cold loss
like Sir John was there in the cathedral supporting her waist.

Our strength is beautiful and it is also a mighty good to see that
other feelings that balance delights in this ‘love deficient’ world
do not have overwhelming weight to drown eternally into dip
every pumping heart they once or many times had board.

So my thoughts kissed tranquility after six days of psychological troubles,
then I came understand that Sir John was sitting in the cathedral
illuminating the temple better than neighboring lights inside,
But Mrs John’s heart is this temple here where sat John – for eon.
Akira Chinen Jul 2017
It's a cold heart that neglects what horror and darkness a person must go through to even think about suicide as an alternative to living, to a mind that has gone numb from the terror of drawing in another breath, to eyes that have gone blind to things that were once beautiful, to a person who has been gripped so tight by depression that the silence of being crushed under the weight of the earth is the last sound they want to hear.
Living can be hard, for anyone, no one is free from suffering, illness, death, we all have our battles, both private, public, family, etc... and at the end of the day in that moment between sleep and dream, all of of us are alone.  Alone with our demons and thoughts and prayers and despair, some more aware and some more blissfully not so.  The world is a scary ******* place right now, there is a **** load of bad things happening every moment of every ******* day.  It's not the devil running around **** *** naked spraying his jizzum of evil down upon our heads but it's the evil of mans own invention and indifference to each other.  We should be moving forward as a species and a community and a world... together.  And yet, somehow, with all our fancy tech and intellect and possibilities... we're not.  I'm not going to lie... daily headlines and newscast make me somewhat envious of those who found themselves able to pay the price for the luxury of suicide.  I mean, ******* come on... how can you not think every now and then... **** THIS PLACE!... it's truely a **** hole at times, people can be ******* horrible and are ******* horrible far too often.  Human misery spreads like cancer and the masses eat it up like it's a candy necklace wrapped around some ancient deities **** causing poisonous sugar to rush through their blood to fuel an ideology of hate so old no one could tell you when or how it started.  And the saddest part, sitting on the couch being ignored like a nerdy kid back in the 80's, is love...  and no one wants to sit by it and get cooties.  No, we're all to cool for that.  It's all about pretending to have good intentions and insta-gratification and self-degradation and hey hey hey look at me me me first and gimme gimme gimme...
This isn't everyone, and the world isn't absolutely beyond hope... but you would have a hard time arguing that the shadows aren't overpowering what little beauty there is left.
And that's hard knowledge to live with...
Then add on top of that, private and personal struggles no one else is aware of, or worse shrugs off or dismisses as nothing serious.  The signs aren't always easy to read... speaking from personal experience, it is far to easy to carry a lot of weight and fear and self loathing while wearing a plastic smile in public.   Some things seem too personal or embarrassing or what the **** ever to share sometimes and its just easier to say "I'm ok" than try to explain how terrible and dark and alone our hearts feel and our thoughts get.  It's real easy for the whole world to feel empty when that moment we experience between sleep and dream follows us through ever waking moment.   And it's easy to be mad and ****** and heartbroken when we read the word "suicide" in yet another headline... but what's harder is to imagine what that person must have been going through in that last moment between life and death.  It's harder to be human and feel compassion and empathy towards the departed, it's hard to walk up to the nerdy kid called love sitting on the couch and say, "****, I'm sorry I neglected you and ignored you"... but it's going to be harder and harder to read that headline over and over again.  So, for anyone, anyone at all, the couch love is sitting on is pretty ******* big and its nice and warm and cushy, so if your world feels empty, come sit down, we can talk, we can cry, we can just shut the **** up and be empty and alone together... what ever you need, I'll be here.
I am escaping by boat
and eradicating the ropes
that kept me bound to your suffering
in limbo she waits for her heart to be recognized
tired of this drawn out sequence
all she wants to do is rest
pushed beyond the edge of exhaustion
she knows she can’t go on like this indefinitely
will she swallow her pride and admit her tiredness
or will she yield to the pressure of her mind
and push blindly on against her body’s better judgement
what a presumptuous question
the stolen answers are ubiquitous
sleep confounds you
surrounds you like a blanket
i am awake
waiting for my release into the ethers
ethereal tears stream down your face
i say grace and drift upon clouds of memory
and fragments of emotion
what a mystery how we escape the most fragile feelings
only to return to childhood memories
that linger on our tongues like the taste of cotton candy
sand and sweat fill the space of your nightmares
share them with your neighbor
and become the avant-garde artist you always dreamed about becoming
what’s more important to you anyway
faith or family

sandpaper or cigarettes
do you persist in coming clean
or would you prefer to lounge on lawn chairs and living room furniture
the carpets were just steamed
and so were these greens
with spines and volumes of identifying marks
strike the match and let the spark illuminate the darkness of our misconceptions
no exceptions to love
only lovers crying out for hungry minds
the fire encircles us
turns us purple
love is merging through the haze
stage 1 begin to undress
stage 2 do it all again

serpents painting along the corridors of our houses
sound and flowers persecute the daughters
who waited too long for you to grow up
alone in empty basements
a passionate silhouette among the flowers and field mice
streams of tears cascading like waterfalls down their rocky faces
spraying wind and wave
staying cool yet safe
all our hearts are standing still
on the edge of a needle
billions of beings dance in turmoil
strolling through volcanoes on a windy afternoon
monsoon weather equals heaven’s idea of a joke

shake me till i bleed
bleed me till i come to a boil
i’ll follow the diagonal road
under crossroad’s formidable abode
swift like the lion on the savannah
i’ll trade you a banana for a band of gypsies
simply delirious she spent her allowance on tea and ornaments
the scent of cattle
a magic rattle made from bone and pebbles
the shells were held at right angles
and lined their faces like the frame around a picture
the pages in the book were yellowed by time’s ***** fingerprints
a hint of irony
a humorous blunder
some people stare while others are perplexed by their own wonder

i speak volumes in my thirties
a missile of connection and yes i am planning to get *****
and women come for miles to hear these words of beauty
they taste the herbs inside them and dance within their nighties
a flute in the woods called you back home
and sent you on a journey through thorn and bramble
we stumbled into each others arms and made haste for the carriage that would take us safely beyond
amber Oct 2018
hunched over
in the shower
cold water
spraying down

you shiver
I trace your exposed spine
with
my finger
and whisper
"come closer"
My fingers are turning into bugs and talking to eachother
chitter-chatter legs sawin'
SAW mobbing, spraying darts 725
per min
Good times and sin, splayed soulless
on the street sobbin'
Lobbin' handgrenades in the darkness, heartless
Target, large and approaching, less man than machine
Sent to roll over you and me
The nail that stands up
will be beaten down
Sketcher May 2
These feelings,
I know them,
I’ve felt them before.
I was reeling,
In feelings,
I felt from a *****.
But now I’ve moved on,
That’s all in the past.
She’s out of my life, she’s gone,
I knew that **** wouldn’t last.

Then why, I ask,
Do I feel this way?
Towards the girl I love,
The girl that loves me.
I sit and I think,
About the feelings and thoughts,
That seem to come about,
When it seems I’ve forgot,
That she really cares,
Like nobody before,
Much more than Heather,
That stupid-*** *****.

Let’s think a second here,
She smokes and drinks beer,
Along with these habits,
Comes unending fear,
That she likes other addiction,
More than our love,
More than our friction,
Cause when push comes to shove,
I’ll let her shove me,
Right down the stairs,
Before I create some part of her,
That will need repairs,
Years and years from now,
If she ever left,
If she ever up and,
Stole my heart out my chest,
And ran and ran,
Blood spewing and spraying,
Like love was a game,
That is just meant for playing.

And she talks to this guy,
A past sugar daddy,
He thinks that he’s sly,
With Britney and Maddie,
And Courtney and Tia,
In all corners of the world,
He’s got girls that will be a,
Nice ***** for him,
And he likes my baby,
And she says she misses him,
So maybe... just maybe,
If she goes to Canada,
And decides to meet him,
They’ll get in a situation,
Where she decides to treat him...

I know this will never happen,
But there will always be the fear,
That one of us will **** up,
So I worry the end is near.
Soon I’ll gain trust,
This won’t last forever,
But, until then,
Trust issues I’ll sever,
I’ll cut them all off,
One by one,
Because feeling this feeling,
Is anything but fun.

A Skeleton gunslinger, takes on the Unholy of Hell and wages war against his nemesis Hatchet, as a portal to Hell threatens to unleash the putrid, rancid, Unholy hordes onto a desolate planet. "


The bringer of Death arrived in Dakota. Custer's Seventh lay dying on the Powder river and the Ancients had sent him to walk the Earth and help the Ghost-walkers to hold their land. In his mortal days, he carried a torch for Serela, an outcast from the Mind seekers.That's what got him killed in the first place. The saloon was full that night, and he was called out.
He pulled his gun first and knew he would die. His death was foretold in the ancient scriptures of truth. 'The bone that liveth shall slay the flesh and the flesh will become liveth bone'.
Justice will walk the plains and avenge the truth'.
Serela had looked on as a bullet pierced the gunslinger's skull.The spirit of the ancients swept through her soul then, as she watch his head explode, filtering its entrance into the new receptacle of justice.

No one saw the killer shadow draw or witnessed it's departure but John Bitumen's body lay dead, the blood flowing from a hole in his forehead. Even as he died, he was reborn.
The Skull of Death in search of a gunfight, Deathbringer, Cleanser of Evil.


Hatchet looked at his mangy horse, a wasted beast worn out and at the end of it's road.Two years it carried his weight and the saddle dug deep.Whippings were constant and the calloused cruel fists of Hatchet rained down on it's neck if it slowed any.The nearest town was a mile down the road and it was late in the day.
That was all it took to set the anger in motion.Hatchet took five paces away from his horse and hurled his razor sharp hatchet with violence. The horse's head was split in two.
He hauled his saddle, and wrestled his ****** weapon from the dead horse, then walked into the dusk. All the time, Serela had observed from the Spirit's eye, an artefact of the Ancients, entrusted to the Mind Seekers. Hatchet would pay for his offence against Nature's pure beast, for it was written' All Creatures will walk the Earth and all will be held Holy.Swift will be Divine retribution against those who slay the pure beast'.
Hatchet wasn't one to read the ancient scriptures and could not know that the Skull of Death would search him out in the next town.The Ancients had called forth their Gunslinger and a skeletal hand rested on the sacred Gun of Abe. Hatchet would be called out and a Gunfight would settle scores. A chill in the air unnerved him and he took comfort in carresing his ivory handled pistols.


Darkness fell on the land and the half moon shone on the dead horse.The night crawlers made to cut it's remains and scavenge it's carcass. Two hands were raised to the sky, pleading for forgiveness. Horsemeat was forbidden and a desecration of sacred laws.
A knife was produced and held to the beast's throat. In that moment, all became aware of the onlooker.A tall figure in a drab grey longcoat, black spurred boots, an old black stetson. The Sacred Gun of Abe was in his hands. The Skull of Death, the Ancients Gunslinger, walked the Plains once more.
All seven night crawlers stared in disbelief. Their last minutes of life ebbing from them as the eyes of the Ancients warrior scanned their souls and cremated their bodies.Seven figures suddenly engulfed in flames under the incessant stare of the Skull's empty sockets. Amongst the embers, the Gunslinger knelt beside the horse. In his mortal days, this beast was his closest companion.Hatchet had stolen his possession and the sight of it's remains stirred an anguished scream for the horrific end which befell his steed.

Gently the Gun of Abe was placed on the horse's neck. A small bottle of holy oil was rubbed in it's wounds.' Though death may stalk the pure, truly I say to you that righteousness will prevail and the dead will rise'. Even as the words were uttered, a ball of blue flame enveloped the horse. The light illuminated the darkness and from the light the skeleton of a horse emerged, raising itself up on its hind legs, in defiance of death. Approaching the Gunslinger, it nuzzled it's head to his skull, the brilliance of it's chalk white bones radiating a supernatural hue. Mounting his steed, he galloped into the night.Vengeance was coming.Death on a horse was looking for Hatchet!


Raihna woke suddenly and locked eyes withHatchet. She had been ordered to sleep with him, against her wishes. 'Something wrong with me, *****? Hatchet snarled when he'd paid his ten dollars to the House Madam.
'You better be worth it *****! He had roughed her up before falling into a drunken slumber. Now he was standing in his ragged long johns, at the end of the four poster bed.
A manic look was in his beady eyes, as he swigged his liquor jar. Unkempt rank hair covered his weasel like features. Reeking of horse and trail sweat, an **** belly adorning his uglier frame, he leered for the longest time.Raihna took it all in, especially the hatchet in his right hand. 'Think you're mighty purdy, don't ya! he sneered. ' Let's see what you look like with a hair cut'!
Raihna noticed then that he had pinned her pigtails to the wooden headboard. Realising a scream would be the end of her, she stared back and waited. Hatchet hurled his weapon and it sliced into the headboard, shorning her hair.From the table, he grabbed his bowie knife and aimed for the other pigtail, slicing it off and nicking her neck. 'Well lookee now' he laughed as a trace of blood ran down her neck. 'Ain't you gonna scream, *****?


An eerie blue glow filtered into the room just then and the whinny and snortin' of a horse filled the air. 'What in Hell's name? muttered Hatchet. Looking out of the curtains, he saw the chalk white Skeleton of a horse and a skeleton rider brandishing a pistol. A fiery blue-red low glow radiated from their eyes and it seemed both rider and steed were on fire. Hatchet shouted out ' You one of them Resurrectionists?!' suddenly remembering the old shaman he had killed back in Piebald.
Hatchet had stolen his runes and kept them for trading with the Mindseekers. He thought now that maybe this was him come looking for him from the afterworld. Hot ***** trickled down his leg and he felt scared and sick to his stomach.

The gallows await !' It was almost a whisper as the ancients gunslinger raised his head towards the window. Hatchet grabbed Raihna and tried to shield himself from the spectre below. His mind raced as he hesitated, panic flooding his brain. 'Take them! We be even! he gambled as he threw the runes at the gunslinger. Even as he did so, they were grabbed instantaneously by a skeletal hand and placed around the gunslinger's neck. For these were the runes of time and in the coming trials would decide the balance of power between the Unholy and the Just.


Hatchet had thrown away his trump card and even as he loaded his gun, he was destined to die. 'Pearls before swine' whispered into the room and Hatchet descended the stairs, with Raihna in front. His pistol was cocked and he would shoot it out. If Hell was waiting, he wasn't going on his own. His hatchet lay in his side belt and he made his way onto the street.
The hallway was pitch black and Hatchet cautiously approached the parlour door hoping to get out the back street. He held a vice-like grip on Raihna's arm as he pushed her along. 'You keep your mouth shut ***** and open that door easy' he whispered, his voice betraying his inner terror. Suddenly and unexpectedly, he felt the cold muzzle of a revolver pressed hard to the back of his head. 'You take your claws offa my girl, Hatchet 'less you wants your **** brains spilled where you stand!
Hatchet knew Charlotte, the House madam, wasn't bluffing. He'd seen her do it too, back in Abilene, when China Jack beat up one of her girls. She'd shot him straight through his throat and followed up with a clean shot to his manhood. It hurt Hatchet even now just thinking about it'. Jesus! he thought as he cursed his situation. Things were moving too fast and nothing was going his way.
Hatchet loosened his grip, carefully holstering his gun.As she moved away, Raihna spat on his face and kneed him in the groin. ****! he bellowed and went to strike Raihna. His hearing saved her, as Charlotte cocked the gun and stopped him where he stood. 'Think I'd sleep easy with you on the premises, Hatchet? Take me for a fool? I don't know what the Hell is out on that street but it wants you!' By Christ, you're going out the front door to face it too!. 'Always were a cowardly *******, now move you lousy **** head!
Raihna had gotten hold of a shotgun and had it trained on Hatchet. 'Drop that hatchet right now, she said. ' You're facing that creature with your gun and nothing else! God knows you don't deserve even that much. Hatchet dropped his hatchet. 'Now kick it over here!' He did so and as Raihna picked it up, she hurled it back immediately into his right thigh, gashing him like a pig for the slaughter. Hatchet screamed in agony and Charlotte pulled it out of his thigh as the room sprayed with the red bloom of imminent death. Now move you *******!


Charlotte and Raihna ushered him towards the front door and kicked him into the dark dusty side street. 'You got it coming, Hatchet!, they shouted and there waiting for him was the Ancients Gunslinger. He had dismounted from his steed and now faced Hatchet.The look of death was in the Skull's eerie sockets and it was all Hatchet could do to stop his hands shaking. He threw up and finally faced the spectre before him.

'For those who have suffered, shall be avenged. The Righteous Light will shine on the Unholy and all dark souls shall be driven from the Plains. Fear will walk amongst them and even the shadows shall despise their ways.'
Thus it had been written and now was coming to pass.


Hatchet went for his gun, and time slowed down as his eyes scanned the scene. A chalk, pure white, skeletal hand reached for a gun and the fluid movement captured his attention. Hatchet knew he had been outdrawn and could see the gunslinger's bullet leave the smoking barrell, pristine, crafted by a master gunsmith. He noticed the leather holster, worn and faded, almost an antiquity, strapped to a dark trousered leg.
The long coat, ghastly grey, adorning the bones of the undead. Empty eyes stared him down, as he heard his own gun's sharp report and watched his bullet sail towards the spectre. Just before the gunslingers bullet blew his brains out, he finally noticed the spectre of the horse and instinctively knew this was the brutalised beast he had so callously slain. Blood and bone exploded violently and the mortal remains of Hatchet dropped to the ground.
Hatchet didn't know it then but he too was about to be reborn; for the Unholy were about to unleash the Scourge of Hossana and the Ancients Gunslinger stood in their way. Hatchet would be forged in the cauldron of Hell and in the coming trials would once again face the Sacred Gun of Abe.


Hatchet became conscious, and felt as ill as a cow in a slaughter house. The smell of death was rancid and his vision seemed out of focus. A nauseating, sickly stench permeated his nostrils and he winced as the pungent odour inflated his lungs. He was aware his whole body was bitter cold and he shivered uncontrollably. If this was a hangover, then it was the worst he'd ever been. Terrifyingly, he noticed that he was manacled, face down, to a massive ice block.
Encased within the block was a dead horse, it's head split in two, exposing brain matter, decayed pulped flesh, and grizzled bone. It's mouth was fixed in a ghastly grimace with it's eyes looking back into Hatchet's, it's gory mane matted in dirt.
His screams were hideous to hear and were lost in the din of the thousands of screams echoing within the air.The sound was deafening and burst his ears as the terror built up within him. Hatchet knew then he was in Hell, amongst the thousands of fallen souls now in the possesion of the Unholy.
His whole being was perished with unbearable, intense cold yet he could see flames, blazing blue and orange, feet away from him taunting him with intense glow.
Still the shrieks and squeals of thousands around him assailed his ears! The amplified volume resonated in his brain as his own screams built to a crescendo!
Yet, no light radiated from the flames and the pitch black illuminated only the horse within the ice block and the grimace which would be eternal. Still Hatchet screamed till he felt his throat would explode and his mind begged for deliverance! It was then that his shoulders and back ignited with agonising pain as he felt the sting of a whip.
Again and again the whip found it's mark and his flesh was pulverised. He cried out for forgiveness and begged to be spared and still he was lashed.He prayed to pass out and knew he never would ! For he was in Hell and the blackest deeds were now held to account.
A voice bellowed at him'Welcome Brother Hatchet! We will have a purpose for you soon! Enjoy the interim! Many more punishments await you yet until you are ready'. The eerie voice trailed off as Hatchet continued to be whipped. His agonising screams drowned the air and was unheard amongst the thousand others. Still the horse fixed it's empty eyes and stared at Hatchet and its grimace took pleasure in his suffering.

Seven days passed since Hatchet was despatched to Hell, and darkness fell on the Plains like a widows veil. No light illuminated the Earth and the Lakota knew this was the sign of the coming trials. The Ghost-walkers had appealed to the Great Spirit and no one who witnessed their victory at the Powder River could deny their courage.Truly this was evidence of the Spirit's intervention in their way of life. Reports had come in to Chief Red Cloud of a figure of flame riding amongst the Buffalo. A Skeleton on fire, riding the Skeleton of a horse at full charge. It seemed the very ground they rode upon was a torch of lightning, and the figure was at one with the Buffalo. Red Cloud rode out to witness it himself and noticed the blue-orange glow, like an aura of defiance, surrounding the figure. In it's hand was a gun, and Red Cloud recognised it as the Sacred Gun of Abe.
Many tales had been passed down from his ancestors, and Red Cloud knew this figure was sacred to his tribe.The Ancients Gunslinger would play a role in the destiny of his People.The Whiteman would pay a heavy price for the desecration of the traditions and way of life of those under the protection of the Great Spirit. He knew too that an enemy would arise which would destroy the Whiteman, and all the Earth's inhabitants. Only the Native American would take the battle to the Enemy, aided by the Ancients and the Mind Seekers.
Red Cloud knew his people looked to him for leadership, and he would provide it.They would hear how Red Cloud rode with the Ghost Rider and take pride in his courage. His fate was tied to the Ancients Gunslinger, and this had been preordained in the ancient Scriptures. Red Cloud looked down at the flaming figure and dug his knees into his horse. Charging down the hill, he shouted out a proud battle cry, and rode like the wind to the side of the Ghost Rider.In their trail the Buffalo followed.The trials ahead would be met and the Unholy would do battle with their most dangerous enemy.



**** it Charlotte! 'It don't make sense!
Hatchet weren't killed by no ghost, for Christ sake! Marshall John Lancaster was tired and couldn't believe the events which occurred in his absence. He had just brought in Ned Marlow.Got two of his men killed doing it, and suffered a leg wound himself in the shoot out. Marlow had been holed up in Tinkers Creek and came out unexpectedly with his guns blazing as the posse approached the log cabin. It had suddenly turned pitch dark, and all the horses got spooked, causing confusion amongst the lawman's officers.
Ned Marlow knew Hatchet; had lost an eye in a bar brawl to him once.It was said Hatchet carried the eye around with him ever since.
Ned was closing in on Hatchet, bent on revenge, and swore he'd see him dead. Suddenly a shot rang out, and startled Lancaster.
Ned had headbutted the Marshall's deputy as he was being placed in the holding cell.He had grabbed the deputy's gun then and blown a hole clean through him. Carelessness, or tiredness, maybe both, had cost him his life. Ned didn't give no quarter when his own life was on the line. He weren't going to no hangman's noose neither. He burst into the Marshall's office then and fired off two shots catching Lancaster in the left arm wounding him badly. The Marshall got off one reactive shot catching Ned's left ear.The sound deafened him and he put a slug through the Marshall's head.The fragrance of gunpowder filled the room and Charlotte could only look on.'You're coming with me, Honey!'bellowed Marlow as he grabbed her hair, pulling her close, and made his way onto the streets. A gun was held to Charlotte's head and Ned was figuring his next move.


He was too busy watching the streets but if he'd looked up, he would have seen a hatchet hurtling towards him with violent intent. The hatchet caught his gun hand and severed it clean off his wrist. Ned now had the indignity of losing his right hand.He screamed in agony as blood squirted from his severed wrist, spraying Charlotte in a plume of lifes red wine. Ned looked to the ground and his own hand lay there, holding his pistol, it's finger still on the trigger. Legend would record the severed hand fired off a shot moments after it's horrific amputation. Ned Marlow didn't know it then, but he too would play a role in the coming trials. The Unholy knew it only too well for it had been written 'The Deaf shall hear, the Blind shall see, and the hand of the sinner will turn on the Unholy'.


There the severed hand lay. A ghastly, grotesque, weather worn obscenity.
The gun had been removed from it's grasp since it's horrific amputatation from Ned Marlow. Three days had passed since the incident and no one dared to remove it from the street.cOminously, no decay had festered to spoil that monstrosity;for life still lingered within it's ghoulish flesh. Mangy street dogs looked at it with curiosity, yet kept a tentative distance. The little finger still wore a silver ring, set with a black stone. Once it had belonged to an ancient Pagan High King, who had been slaughtered in battle. An artefact from a distant time, carried across Europe into the America's. Evil had tainted it's properties and the Sons of the Unholy had sought it since. The ring now sought a new owner as the severed hand, an abomination of creation, crawled, like a filthy worm in the dirt. Slowly, laboriously, with uncanny certainty, the wretched hand made it's way towards the room of the one who had hurled the hatchet.


Raihna sat alone in her bedroom.The hatchet lay across her lap and it was emitting a low hum, almost inaudible, but she had heard it. At first she thought madness was setting in, but she realised that the voices communicating with her were real; the Mind Seekers had chosen her.
Her mind and body became a telepathic conduit and she was absorbed in receiving the messages. The Ancients were channelling through her and a deep trance held her almost comatose.
Slowly, sickening slow, the hand crawled it's way towards her., Grubby, thick, fingers inching themselves stealthily, dangerously close, while Raihna was immersed in the communication.
Her eyes were closed in the deep state between the conscious and the unconscious, so she could not witness the fingers wrap themselves around the handle of the Hatchet. Both hand and clasped hatchet lifted silently from her lap. As the hand moved to distance the weapon from her, the ring glowed a greenish hue, emanating the presence of the Unholy. Suddenly the hand lunged at Raihna's throat!
Raihna's life was ebbing into eternity.The possessed, filthy, unholy amputation squeezed her windpipe with the vengence of perpetual hostility. The ring on the severed hand's finger glowed brighter, as her life force lay on the threshold of destruction. It seemed as though the light of a thousand burning suns illuminated that room. A portal to Hell had been created and Raihna was pulled into that abyss. She was neither dead nor alive, for the Unholy had need of a pawn.The hatchet too was ****** into that void as it was destined to be reunited with Hatchet.The light was blinding and it seemed the very Earth could have been swallowed; as though the Gods had abandoned all of Creation!
Yet there he stood! A blazing figure astride a blazing horse.The chalk white bones of a skeleton horse carrying the Ancients Gunslinger towards the entrance to Hell! The ancient scriptures had written ' The Liveth Bone shall ride into Hell, and the Unholy shall cower'.
The Sacred Gun of Abe shall wield the vengeance of the Ages and the Earth and Heavens shall shake'. Thus it had been written and was now coming to pass.
A portal to Hell had opened and the Gunslinger charged into that cesspool of abomination. No Horse ever galloped with such energy and the Unholy prepared for the skirmish.The Gunslinger was possessed with a relentless rage for Justice. Hell quaked as both rider and horse fearlessly charged into the bowels of Evil's pestilent abode.
Furious at this brazen affront, the Unholy now made to close that portal. Even as they did so, Hatchet was resurrected from his tormented existence. His hatchet was reunited with him as he prepared to once again face the Gunslinger.Raihna must be rescued; for her destiny was tied to the Earth's salvation. For now, she lay in a corner of Hell watched over by a severed hand. The screams and anguished cries of all the lost souls in Hell echoed in the stagnant air. Still the Rider charged furiously as he sought to gather Raihna to his arms. A ****** hatchet sailed towards him and Hell looked on.


Hatchet charged from the cage of demons, his face etched with the pain of perpetual torment. His emaciated form like a malignant Phoenix rising from the ashes of Hell. The pitiful creature carrying his burden reared from his weight. A wretched carcass of a decayed horse which had been ressurected for battle. That same horse which had been encased within the ice block;whose ****** head Hatchet had split open when both were mortals on the Earth. Man and beast now tools for the Unholy; possessed by the collective evil of all who now suffered in Hell.cTheir dark energy would now be harnessed for the coming trials. A gruesome grimace was fixed on the horse's face and it's empty eyes stared ahead as Hatchet charged towards the Gunslinger. His violent countenace expressed the deadly intentions which would be borne down upon his enemy.
He had hurled his weapon and watched as it made it's deadly trajectory towards the Gunslinger. As the hatchet spun and revolved through the air, Hatchet emmitted the scream of the demented. The Gunslinger had lowered in his saddle and the hatchet narrowly missed it's target. Continuing on it's course, it landed in the back of one of the screaming forgotten whose souls were doomed to eternal agony.
Both riders now crashed headlong into one another and Hatchet fell from his horse. The Sacred Gun of Abe was now in the Gunslinger's hand and a skeletal finger pulled the trigger.
Once again, Hatchet would witness a bullet discharge from it's revolving chamber. His head exploded as the bullet entered his brain, exiting in one piece and landing in the dank soil of Hell.The blessed relic purified the soil and the Unholy recoiled with revulsion.
The dead cannot die and Hatchet struggled back to his feet. Grabbing the Gunslinger's reins, he attempted to pull him down. It was then that the runes around the Gunslinger's neck pierced the air with a deafening incantation.
The Unholy screamed as the Holy words of the Ancient Scriptures filtered into the bowels of iniquity and shook the foundations of Hell.
Hatchet reeled back and grabbed his hatchet from the spine of the forgotten sinner. He looked up then and witnessed a warrior's lance sail through the air.It violently struck and impaled the severed hand guarding Raihna.
Red Cloud had accompanied the Gunslinger in his charge into Hell!
Jacob Thomas Oct 2018
Waning scion
encroaching
a course

An Isolated course;
coarse is its skin
blind-sight is its eye
with flutist wind
whistling its mind

Sly stars dripping
under fogged
horizons
the moon shuttering
light,
fleeing from the
gaunt wood
where I reside

Night,
shroud of
razor black
oozing pustules
of defect and blight,
mind snaking through
bowels--
grisly bowels kept in
swamps
kept in dark and damp
kept underground--
stone underground

Sprouting
out splintered
atonement,
slumped on a
broken wall

Gray above,
light humming
under feet,
through scabrous
stone and sodden clay

One hope lingers:
plunge worrisome
hands into the
viscous floor

Tugging fingernails,
bartering
screams with the wind,
grounded pain arises through the dirt,
latching to my veins

Injecting the soil and stone into my
twitching heart, feeding the cells with
native essence

Purging the human from
the silken skin; spraying it into
the sediment home

Bedrock welcomes my sight
and my trench
shapes my stale body.

           Becoming soil and rock
           and worms and root
           offers a listing breeze
           to the now formless thought

The dirt is in me
The rock is in me
The qualm is without
Rayven Rae Aug 2018
we sit

moon in transition
dancing off glassed ripples
filled with breath; bread

he pulls me to him

live in vulnerable nakedness;
cherry orchards spraying fire
into his sky

hold me tight; tighter

silence screams.  melodies.
unspoken words hang heavy
while demons dance within

can’t you see i’m looking for you?

close; closer
the mangos have fallen;
(consumed by the spring)
to rework our truth

we should just sleep together

night falls; darker in questions.
silence laps an metaphorical shores
where together our bodies should lay

you should go before it’s too late

tears glisten, manifest.  the loss
of not knowing your skeletons
hanging from my trees

and i silently scream
wait for me;
it is not here
that you will find me.
but not here
i whisper
is better
than nowhere.

— The End —