Noise-weaver's Den

Echoes, Cries, and Noise This is an accumulation of most of the poetry I've written (roughly) during 2018-2020; mostly those I thought to be more presentable.  Thank you for showing interest. Links: Mega:  https://mega.nz/#!jT4zzb4Z!UFialLD0S3FygGlsCKSGN6QlR-inyhnNRvQY6eGQA-I PicoFile:  http://s6.picofile.com/file/8390167518/Echoes_Cries_and_Noise.pdf.html Mediafire:  https://www.mediafire.com/file/fe00lyfp9jdob70/Echoes%2C_Cries%2C_and_Noise.pdf/file

Under the Chassis Black. And in the pitch dark of night. As a black and starless rag. Smokeless. Blacker than soot. A single point, white and lustrous. As in moon. And a god with barbed hands molesting its face. And moon’s gashed and swollen skin dusted away with wind. He put his other hand on its fissured, chapped lips and played with it. Dead moon. Necro. A cold and empty breath exhumed from the fault of her mouth. No other hole and cavity as in its eyes and ears on its skin. Only a mouth and two lips and a neck slowly being covered by god’s hands, tilted in a sickening angle. As the angle got wider the bones each slowly dislocated and cracked, like little lamps and as each bulb popped the moon got darker and darker. Moon died. Now, it wasn’t night. It was the absence of a night. Or a day. Only darkness. Darkness that engulfed the city. To be pale, or to be black in the face of world? In the dark, moonless city, a systemic, sentient old lump of meat was sitting behind