Poor twisted me, poor twisted you, carved my name on the insides of your brain, cut the flesh with little to no care, serendipitously malfunctioning through each twisted moment into the next, surrounding, surrendering, suffocating everything that was and could be, flimsy facts lost in the night, like an eighties saxophone moment in a soft rock anthem, languishing beneath an ending already written, poor twisted me, poor twisted you, carved my name inside your brain, forced myself upon a frail version of who you thought you were, taste my seed as it impregnates your insides, for while your body withers away, my being grows, poor twisted me, poor twisted you….
The Frail Man Knelt Down To Service His King – 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
