Hindrance Of This Decaying Form
Satisfaction is not guaranteed,
for there is no refund,
not in this life,
not for this bloody broken body,
it’s weak and full of holes,
it’s dying,
but I’m not alone,
as nothing is simple,
nothing is new,
everything is the same,
since I lost you,
and now I wait to die,
nursing your corpse,
your cold dead hand,
still holds mine,
waiting here dying,
stuck in this hole.
—
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Matthew Tonks
People are surprised when reading Matthew’s stories that he’s a sane forty something year old, happily married, father of one, employed full time, who dreams of dark disturbing things that any sane person would never even contemplate thinking of. But it's true, he’s toyed with writing for most of his adult life, but has always found the peg a writer must fit into is not the shape he wished to be. His writing can be described as lamenting, long, concussive (yes it smashes you in the head), compulsive, and stuffed with rhythmic communication and violence, let’s not forget the violence. His own opinion on his writing is this, “You see, I don't just want the words to seep into your mind, but into your soul, showing you images of blood and beauty through, volatile language, violence, sex, love and sin. My muse takes different shapes, and every now and then you can see her shining her wicked smile in some of my stories, tempting you with her promises, but ripping your heart out instead.”
So have a look, and take a seat in my wayward ride, as you join me while I purge through, this twisted road of madness.
