The Witches of Fuck Town

The Fixer

Null Endeavor

 
Trees cut black marks in the evening gray,
a web of bloodless veins drooping earthward,
unable to touch the stars from which
they came.
 
 
By K. Shawn Edgar

Post-Suburban War

Speaking for the dead I up Edward Appleby hand over fisticuffs while stepping on the chest of a brut named Ajax long laid waste by the Greek Trojan war of nearly forgotten sword thrusts and word slings like flung sea pikes from the burning edges of black ships never to retreat home.