Anna George Meek

It will rot, like all things, the threads into soil, into beautiful soil. A lace bodice of sunlight wraps around trees, and the gentle oxidation, the airborne creatures, will eat the gown's silks into dust. Taken in. Traces of tissue under her nails: [...]

Here's a story: before we were bodies, the gods took their bourbon at the corner cabaret. Their Queen rasped the standards near a shining piano: she, the saddest kind of regular. Out of sequins, cigarettes, and fat mascara, she created pathos, and fr [...]