Black DogBlack Dog by Hross-Hengesting
Life not as death but unlife as night is to the summer of the soul/ of a man. Warm breath gone cold, forced to shrivel into a snarl. My prism of thought an artifice of oblivion; a black hole at the heart of every inner sentence, internal monologues disintegrate in hatred, fear and pain. That anguish strains the skin I'm in; a rack of carnal torture, the tearing of tissues, of my self. I claw at my face in torpor; guilt; convulsions of angst, ripping fibres of rage, self consuming self, the gift of life a collapsed imploding star, light so bright it becomes blindingly black.
Time drags, numbs –stops? –my body breaks down into components; part in sleep part in motion. In the darkness of the room a part of me stirs not in body but in spirit, the form of flickering shades deep in the pitch black congeal and rise, with nightmares for blood and malaise for bones, the skin is a rough coarse hide clothed in the bestial furs of a desperate greed; a hunger to fill the void that has formed it. It