prose poetry and fiction


a girl sees this painting framed to a wall, gasps in amazement: a god having his holy dejejum, absent of taste, knees bleeding in self prayer, his throne behind him sheathed in doomsday aura— yellow eyes claiming the moths, mouth wide open like a pulsating crater, he chewed one leg then the other, fangs digging hard into raw flesh, a slow-moving mass passing through his translucent esophagus— this silly, crimson gale of one last meal. for the gods are all dying now. they eat what they can eat.