#prose.from.a.rose.: - NINETEEN
I head out after looking out of these cottage windows, deciding the shade of the sky was satisfactory shade of midnight blue, a darkened indigo I find comfortably concealing for the crime I intend to commit.
I decorate my personal space with glass from a broken lantern.
Then I capture the pigeon with my hands and snuff its windpipe out of existence with ease.
It dies in my fists so I drop it into the puddle beneath me, to hydrate it, lean down and pick it back up, and bite its head off. A glorious decapitation.
I lick its grey-blue fur, dunk it in mud, then drive it deep into my mouth as my tongue tastes its beak and eyeballs.
Oh dying, bloody, wet pigeon bringing me nothing but sin by letting me murder you like this. Sweet homicide in the dark when no-one's around to witness it.
Luckily I'm able to withstand the bitterness of the taste of your repulsive bird body thanks to the vengeance I bask in.
Never again will you feed on the intestines of my family's dead corpses.
Give the moon a Valium for being a witness, to make its opinion anything but thinking my act was egregious, never regressive but progressive and I leave the pigeon in the lane of the dead with the Mexicans that resides in the past where I shall never go, but have been to.
The pigeon could barely tweet like a bird, if anything it was more like a duck. I bet while it was still alive it was glad I didn't have a sesquipedalian name for its tiny, incompetent beak and its non-existent ears that have never heard of the shade of orange, only the fruit.
Its ghost should assign objects to meaning distract its forsaken soul with pareidolia.
I'll be off to kill false-kings who drown in sanctimony as much as they do gluttony. Get them to bless my angels and my shoulders with the act of accolade, make me a knight at night, so that I can kill the moon too.
Beggars for lives are forced to be in acquiesce every time I make a request, they are my army, my slaves, and I will come for all whom feed from plates that do not belong to them.
Names cannot be spoken into the air to die as an ephemeral, temporally-bound note, no they must be immortalised through carvings on an obelisk.
I have one in my fortress, tall and obsidian, gleaming against sunlight as bright as fire, all my names on it, all the things I've ever done, so tall its height precedes a beanstalk, and touches Mars.
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Prose from a Rose
Poetry🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹 Here, you can find all of the pieces of prose that Aun has ever written in one, organised book. You can also find all of Aun's prose across his five poetry books. ⚜️Poetry By Aun (Volume One) 👽 Finding the Edge (Volum...
