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What a Mess-Fiction by Miles Ryan Fisher
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The Bank Robbin' Deacon-Flash Fiction by Walter Giersbach
The Matrix of Love-Flash Fiction by J. Brooke
Huddled and Crying-Flash Fiction by Paul Beckman
The Mere Four-Flash Fiction by Henry G. Stanton
The Big Hunt-Flash Fiction by Cindy Rosmus
Family Tree-Poem by Neil Ellman
A Line from Lynynrd Skynyrd-Poem by Mark Young
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Contemplating an Unknown-Poem by Ayaz Daryl Nielsen
Lifeless Space Rock-Poem by Ayaz Daryl Nielsen
Our Armored Oxygen Suits-Poem by Ayaz Daryl Nielsen
Like Broken Glass-Poem by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal
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Terrible Animal-Poem by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal
I Am Borges-Poem by Dr. Mel Waldman
I Am Hesse-Poem by Dr. Mel Waldman
I Am Camus-Poem by Dr. Mel Waldman
The House of Four Senses-Poem by John Grey
At the Complaint Department-Poem by John Grey
My Mighty Pen-Poem by John Grey
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Dark Tales from Gent's Pens

matrixfinal.jpg
Art by Artist Zero © 2019

THE MATRIX OF LOVE

by j brooke

 

We all die; no one gets out alive.

The matrix is all that is between life and death; we must exist, live, love, hate, be in love and suffer when ecstasy dies, usually within the arms of a callous lover, who might have forgotten the color of her eyes, the aroma of our breaths, the feeling of the liquid melodic memory, most amazing feeling of sex, when she was desired, begged for, a single touch, a single kiss, as air, as oxygen to his soul.

Particle beam by particle beam, we lose souls that in a moment of time, our exact opposites simply could not live without, dying as if they were a millimeter away from our hearts; our bodies mixed as twin ice crystals of Saturn’s rings, tangled within the solar winds, which they blasted apart in the end, because he failed to remember that her love for him was a gift, not an annuity that he was entitled to.

How many broken hearts must fill the hollow globe of a planet evolving from perfection to imperfection, before love flows, and drowns, and dies, in a sea of remorseful pain? Must the grief and loss of love forever clutch their furtive fingers around our throats as an executioner’s song, a cruel network of copper wires and fiber optics entrapping us in a death knell puzzle stitched to our memories of love found, love lost, forever a reminder of our pure sorrows? Must each waking moment weigh as an accumulative reminder that every living creature found within the maze, their search for dignity within passionate screams, failed as we sought the most elusive question always, and seemingly forever, at the very tips of our begging souls and that is: how could he ever have forgotten the taste of a female’s lips?

Must the oceans be satiated with our salt tears and pleas for forgiveness, as storms thunder inside our sobs, and the light of lightning that shrieks across our hearts be simply enough to cripple us, we humans that gaze upon an uncertain wind as it breathes life into the very core of our dreams, and deeds, and passions, and the crushing weights of our tragic pasts?

Might the single gasp we take as we die be enough ransom to pay the godless toll for our sins, our hideous acts we were no more aware of enacting as the ocean waves that bring us such joy might have known, wreaking havoc to a child's sand drawing, set alone and along some long-lost beach of our distant romances, endings and memories?

There is, stitched into the core of rock, and captured within raindrops and encapsulated between earth and sky, simple sunsets and silent moon deaths that bring us matters of life and death, and love locked within jails of coal. For man loves her, as she adores him, and it is along the midnight hour, perfumed lips and silken skin, eyes wide, breathing intense, her hair like a golden silk sail trailing in the night wind, pressed against cotton sheets, purring, dreaming, heated and scalded of body heat; his skin, sweat, turmoil and want, that love begins, and then ignites.

Madness, breathing so intense, how could it ever change, swelling the pungent southern rain. Orchids weeping scents of tears and smiles they only ever understand; a story promised forever of never an end, forever and never anything but the touch of two lovers trapped within a vortex of immobilizing and carnal sin, until time warped, and he never remembered something so striking, so mesmerizing, something so special as her smile ever again; gathering his clothes as a thief of night, she sleeps, as the cat burglar clutching her love, her hope, her soul, slithers out the door in the morning hours.

When she wakes, touches the vacant valley of the empty sheets, he will be gone, and of course none of this will surprise her at all, for after all, he is a breed apart, he is a man.

 

J brooke is a writer with over 100 credits, and never lists them. It’s simple for j, for it’s never what you have already written, but what you are going to write next. Contact info: jbrooke2001@yahoo.com


Artist Zero lives in an underground bunker somewhere in Colorado or someplace else with Promise, a rescue Australian Shepherd with an appetite for corn-on-the-cob and peanut butter.

In Association with Black Petals & Fossil Publications © 2019