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Simple Machinesthere is no green valley, stitched
in-between the skull plates
of a death like this,
nothing to section its low spots
into a geography
more sensical, less cruel
or intricately interleaved enough
to dismiss as random or miraculous,
there is simply no vein of life
to stretch or shape these steps
into lesson
when imaginations die,
they settle and house their need
in places like this,
in the oil-dusty shed quiet
landscape of out-buildings,
they settle like workpieces
clamped to the point of crush,
between jaws of the vice, where
their own empty arms meet and remember
how the unwavering compression
of failure's suffocation
can almost feel like love
these truly simple machines
are driven by the tireless turn
of starvation's axle,
breathing only
the black hole's bellowed
rise and fall, simple
in their mechanical advantage
in that they will never threaten
to dream, nor live, never rise
above the deception
that fastens and hinges
dull tools like us together House H(a)untingThe apparition raised its translucent arms and began to wail.
“I come from Hell! From Hell! From— Bloody hell.”
The spirit of Edmund Aspinall grabbed at his shroud as it headed downwards. He pulled it up round his shoulders again and wrapped it around his body.
“You don’t half feel the chill once you’re away from the flames of eternal damnation.”
Miss Amelia Gould, medium-slash-estate agent, nodded sympathetically and entered ‘Hell’ into the address box on the form.
She looked up to see Mr. Aspinall still rearranging his shroud. He smiled weakly.
“I apologise for the rather revealing attire. If I’d realised I was going to be wandering around like this for all eternity, I would have made sure my nearest and dearest had known to bury me in a pair of drawers.”
“Please don’t worry about it, Mr. Aspinall. I am a professional.” Miss Gould put the form to one side. “So, I take it you’r  FadingHave you seen my words?
I've searched everywhere.
I know this sounds absurd,
They're neither here nor there.
Have you seen my words?
Without them I am lost.
Please return them hastily,
I care not for the cost.
Have you heard my voice?
I fear I lost it too.
I've been so clumsy lately.
Oh, what am I to do?
Have you heard my voice?
I know not where it went.
I try to make a sound,
But silence supplements.
Have you seen my inner self?
I think she left me too.
Darkness has me surrounded
And I know not what to do.
She's not here to guide me,
She took my voice and words.
I'm alone with my demons
And I cannot be heard.
Have you seen my words?
Have you found my voice?
Please, it's getting darker...
I fear I'll be destroyed ...
The Slightest BreathIt's remarkably easy, extinguishing a life. All it takes is a lick of one's fingers, a pinch. Or otherwise, a simple puff of breath.
It's no vengeful act. Nothing that I take pleasure in. I think this is a common misconception about Death. That there's some vindictiveness to it, or that the duty of maintaining souls is a gratifying one, in any way.
In point of fact, it's more along the lines of... Well, of bookkeeping really. That's another false notion, too, that I'm the one who chooses who lives and who dies. I do not. Even I cannot control fate. Events unravel, the course of a man's days, for whatever reason, comes to a close, and their candle must be extinguished. It is simply the way of things, as it always has been.
Often, of course, the call is mine to make. If an individual has not gotten themselves killed by the time their candle has melted down to nothing but a stump, then the decrepitudes of general old age begin to add up. I'm forced to watch the mounting of sufferings, the 

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