Foreign bodies clothed in deceit, sorrow, constitute my undoing while vomiting the paternal resentment of oneself, see the flames lick the flesh, feel it wash away the scars of yesterday, building the walls of victory bathed in blood, take the steps ahead without remorse, feed the beast that lay at your feet for it will show no fear on the eve of death if it is loyal only to thee, remove the coat made from your sins and step into the light of destiny, the pale man knows not what he gathers, for he only gathers not absorbs, be the tomorrow yesterday wishes you to be, to become…
A Withered Window Of Smoke Descended Upon The Small Kingdom Of Mankind – 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
