Silence if the rotting flesh, insects burrow deep inside, forgiveness a thing for those that live (not I, not I the dead) for those without a breath, for those without a beat, forgives is another word their rotting brain can’t reach, suffering, damnation, scar tissue, for sleeping soundly in a bed of soil is not to be, the devil made that so, and when I speak of that name please know, I mean humanity, for god is just another word we use for ourselves (profanity), but the devil is what we are (sinner hear me true), so blame the devil, and blame the wicked, blame whoever you wish (LIAR) for in the end (ALWAYS) that bitter place, stand only man!
Published by 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. View all posts by Matthew Tonks