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Matt J. Hewitt

Torn from the main trunk of my body I lift my dripping bloody head up toward the heavens, I swing, and swing my torn off head round and round by my long auburn hair, and my bloody bits spray into the sunlight that floods through a gaping hole within the angry looking sky.

And now To a small brook I carry my severed head, I bend down and begin to fill my now empty skull with the clean sparkling water, A gory looking goblet my head, dripping drool, now filled to the brim with the pure water of the whispering brook, once again I lift my head high but this time as an offering to the great gods far above, who in return chant my name and with this my spirit leaps for joy within my dying corpse.

At peace, at peace now for the gods have drank from my gory chalice, I slump down by the whispering brook and I listen somewhere deep inside myself to the soft humming lullaby of my long lost mother, back now in my crib, once again newborn, I dream, and dream of my sweet loving mother, I dream of the pain inflicted upon me by my sweet loving mother, I dream of the darkness of her glowering face that hung above me so often, reeking of stale smelling booze, for this is my real sweet loving mother, for she truly was the nightmarish beast with dripping dagger in hand that stalked me through many a hideous dream,but now strangely in my last moments I yearn and yearn for her to hold me, as my life gushes from me in scarlet waves that still pump out of my twitching now useless body.


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