i’m a man who likes the things in life i can’t have – the anticipation seizes me – fruit is never as sweet as before you taste it
Author: Mitchell Chmielewski
Deadbolt Diary 2
Music plays from the corner of the room. The window, cracked, allows the chill to seep in, crawling to me from sill to floor. It lunges, unseen, in widening bounds, descending upon me as I lie suspended in a cocoon of varied fabrics. The roar of the furnace erupts in intervals, combatting the vicious cold….
A Walk at Midnight
took a walk at midnight mid december neath the full moon in open air past lonely cornfields barren cut to the quick at harvest – didn’t speak just kept walking through empty streets across from apartment complexes storage units street lamps desolate strip malls – i don’t like this world in the light of day…
Word Salad
hey read that draft you sent me have to say couldn’t hear your voice – i looked and looked but i couldn’t find you on the page – there were so many people shouting at me you were inaudible neath the cacophony – took me a while to chew through the word salad even with…
Lip Service
i get her on her knees and she won’t look at me but i’ll take what i can get these days i don’t get much anymore and it bothers me that it doesn’t seem to bother me like I think it should – even the tease of this wet mouth bobbing indignantly while tracing the…
Deadbolt Diary
The yellow tint of the cool morning sun bleeds through the plated shades of my sliding glass door this December morning. A sense of nauseousness refuses to lift, blending with an anxiousness from the past five days. I apply five cups of french pressed coffee to the sick, making it worse. I want to vomit….
Pathogen Rose
as much as it disgusts me i still love her – despite her infidelity the mind games the constant guilt i still look back on the good times – she shaped me groomed me helped me discover so much – introduced me to the highest highs the lowest lows guided me towards manhood – i…
The Grind
stopped in the parking lot dragging sore feet heavy foot falls clapping against creased crevassed asphalt – ankle clicking in time sharp and brittle treble cadence piercing the bass of blocky rubber soles – hope that isn’t too serious they don’t provide insurance
The Host
they live in the air vents i hear them – there whispered ramblings distorted muttering inchoherent mumbling – are they plotting – vying to descend in the dead of night to pierce my larynx enter through the gash speak through my teeth – can we share this husk until it decays bloating and rotting in…
Piecework Prose 