I would die

kill a person or two

for those lips


© elancharan



Tonight, I would take her soul

weave my tongue on her curves

feed my lust with her moans


© elancharan


He is invested in the sermon but his words are not escaping so easily, each one an effort, a hard and misshapen memory.  Thin and wasted, he is almost worn away and I cannot tell if he is young or old, if the deterioration has been quick or it has taken a lifetime.

I watch his mouth moving, his hands and arms flailing and I can see clearly how disjointed it has become, this diatribe of his.  I do not need to hear.  This sermon is scratched.  It has lost its rhythm and its momentum.



Mark Renney survives in the UK.  He has had works published in STILL, RAW NerVZ and The Interpreters House.  He also contributes to the Art Blog Collective Hijacked Amygdala.

© Mark Renney


The words fill the silence, as lips float in anticipation, quivering, shivering in the cold, the music plays, the winds of flute, his breath staged to find the perfect tune, as they seek to find the perfect moment to peak, to rise and sink with words and music, the strums and shakes, as dust, sand and fantasy fill the air, and it is in these moments that our soul dances in celebration to the arts and the diversity of the human spirit, as the singing bowl sings in response to our awe…

© elancharan


I write, because i fear death, i fear that when they come for me, i will not be able to say no, i will go, i will gladly go, but it will be on my own terms, I write to tell you that this body here, is all flesh and sins, a shell ravaged by age, i write, because after i’m gone, my words shall live and bear witness to you and the madness of this world.

© elancharan