36 Degrees.

They spoke quickly.
In crisp hoarse voices, like butter on fresh brown bread, liberated of bicarbonates, they seemed to be more like organic carbon components, that combine, like heroin.
They walked in short confined mechanical army steps.
Then the fusion of finding their being in its essence.
Pride and Power.
Army cuts were suddenly wildly grown in the Power of not being questioned.
Top buttons were undone, sometimes intertwined in its fabric were stains reeking of cheap whiskey, lolling down their rugged chins.
Or maybe the world was never ready to acknowledge the hidden punk lurking in the very intrinsic value of the living plasm successfully increasing their audacity bestowing them with longevity.

She was waiting, trying to paint a dainty look over her face.
The effort was some what like an erased portrait with intricate expressions drawn and re - drawn, and erased vigorously and incomplete.
Her eyes were not like the smudged line of perfectly applied kohl, that spoke of a lover's lust, but that of the very victim imposed to forced lust.
The had further left dry smudges lower, on her upper cheek, dabbed by the salty tears that evaporated, exothermic, fired by bad memories.

Blood shooting through throbbing veins fueled by consumption of alcohol right through the cornea of the eye

It was like waiting for a cold morning to pass by as you feel your body tighten up in a warm spasm as noon creeped by.
Pausing and replaying a song.
And while the click of the button sounded pause, you quickly heard a dog howl in the distance, being kicked away by a pedestrian for coming in his way.
And after that you don't bother pausing again.

The song was now blinding every other sound.
Like being lead into a plethora of white sound till your ears tear into your inner drums and resonate in your head, like a twitching dying insect, grappling with air to build an epitaph of dust that would dissolve in the air and then fall to death.


Her eyes were as blank as could be.The white throbbing pulp was yellow due to exposure.
The was a slight dust in the air.
Quite claustrophobic.

The whiff of massacre in the air.

The prowling fear around the corner.
Yes, her, doing a swirl around the pillars, in those loosely flowing ruby red silks.
Once a flag of shimmering white.
Now soaked in red blood.
Shriveled in neglect.

As she looked on by, still not a step farther.
She saw the last of the burnt flag, brought down.

The flavor of the atmosphere was ubiquitous.
It reeked of the pungency of a ripped apart conscience seering in the bitterness and forced pleasure of the dirt of drunken breath.
The irony of a bone marrow fucked filthily and left to smear itself in the nothingness of want.
Wrung and clawed like a piece of clothing used to clean the floors.
Soaked in a faint smell of putrid flesh and phenol.
becca' screamed and jumped off the terrace.
The pudgy baby in her arms, flew into the air, right in tow.

Those bullets in the air.
Right through the tonsils, the mercenary rip of, off, the glottis.
The dark veiled pink womb, sometimes, covered by the white of milky skin.
The dead body's of haplessly slaughtered women, made to be carved intricately, repeatedly pleasured forcefully while they swallowed bullet after bullet begging for their respect.
A shallow gruff laugh of clawlike teeth, waiting to shear sheep, in the hard cold fungus smelling air, made so by the rugged pack of religious army.

Uncle Homer
His dog was shot through the upper jaw and left in its own fly swarmed pool of blood on the freshly moved lawn, heavily freckled by plaster and cement powder.
Foam from the sofas, and his jade weaved english coats lay in shreds.
They had gunned the place down during evening tea.

Aunt Helen and her flower beds.

But she hid.
Ara.
Like a glowering worm.
Twitching in its grave.
Flickering.
Not wanting to explore the outside in fear of being crushed before the moon disappeared.
The butterflies were more like moths, now.
Hovering over the stench.

They had come home too, she hid.
She was best.

She overheard them talk in a language that sounded mixed with spit and grime of a heavily accented tone.


She shuffled past scruffily.
Like a quiet spider, rubbing its miniscule hair against a surface lucky enough to feel.
She'd have said daffodils, but running in directions that sounds propel from to get to safety was one of the most difficult tasks given.
She had to pass her predators to get away from them.

She hadn't known or cared much.
But they talked about survival.
About men in divine cloaks who swept away misery and so as to who's misery was most swept away.
They were butchers.
Brutal.
Bloodshot eyes.
Dry lips.
No compassion , just a cold demeanor to conquer over anything that was ever inanimate.
Some said it is wrong to please the desire, sin.
Some said don't get attached to what was made to combat desire.
So what, now?
They killed each other.
Like that.

She couldn't care less.
She just had to run scottfree.
Pay a price for wrath and then the agony of the environment all victims of wrath.

She walked through the debri of house after house, through chimneys, seeing naked women.
Blood soaked white wash smelling of turmeric and cinnamon.
Sometimes, a half dead baby with a ripped state of physical extreme unbearable to the naked mind.
Susceptible to the feasting maggots of discord upon being subjected to such gore.

She walked by.
She couldn't cry, it was a long way, she had to keep a steady breath.
A quick rest in peace for a good soul.
A mother here, butchered with her blossoming womb.
By those, butchers.
They could kill.

Her knuckles were quick enough to curdle though, at sights.

She called them that.

They had almost retreated.