ZiaRElle

Not a sin worth working in The tales I could tell The kind to make the fair heart quake The low and lusty swell The bawdy bitches in their britches With lips a damning red The less we say the more we may Pretend the rest was said When with the missus tender kisses Or in a Sunday mass These men may swear by presence there To shun the lewd and crass To make no mention of intention Is silence speaking lies When to their wives they pledge their lives Yet rest in harlot's thighs Beware the day long due this way When Death should come to town And with no warning to wives soon mourning He shoots the liars down He shoots the lia

An Open Letter to Survivors In school, they told us about the epidemic of Spanish Influenza in New York and how many people it killed. At the height of the outbreak, there was a story about a man who had killed his wife and children and then himself, first declaring to neighbors "I have finally found the cure." I don't believe in God. No God, no damnation. In the back of my mind, suicide has always seemed like an extreme last resort, but a possibility. So when the end came, I have to wonder if that man had more bravery and foresight than I could ever have. When the dead came crawling, stumbling, and walking from the mouths of open graves an