Happiness in a divided regurgitation, splatterEd across the floors of sarcasm, while the flag of disgust flies proudly from the throbbing erection of what was and will never be, throw the wind of never could into the vast emptiness of vivid dreams and see what births, seclusion of the wicked, inclusion of the bold, foresee patterns of violence, foresee an ending in blood, divine endings, stories be told, a religious proclamation, a new god is born from the scars across my chest, reverberate the silence as I slash the glass across my flesh, feel my power, feel it drain beneath my feet, as a river grows to wash everyone away…
Written Words In The Sand Worshipped By The Forgotten Children Of The Bastard Father – Wrapped In Words
Posted by Matthew Tonks on
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
