My Juliet; 5 : 6

The ringing of the phone yanks him from sleep

Sometime in the later afternoon.

His consciousness still buried rather deep,

His sister's voice is sharp and out of tune:

"Jesus, Poet -- what is up with you? 

You don't call your sister anymore?

I feel distraught for you-- you know I do,

But life goes on, just like it did before."

"Please, no more. I mean it -- that's enough.

I will not listen to another word.

I'm dealing with a lot of heavy stuff, 

My soulmate died, in case you hadn't heard.

...I'm sorry. Let me call you in an hour;

I need to clean this place and take a shower."

----

- Jack

 

Update - 2015-08-29

Good day, everyone. I've been under the weather for the past week, so new poetry has been slow. However, here's a brief rundown of everything I'm working on:

- Passion's Echoes: The preorders are on their way, and will be signed and shipped by early next week. Release Date: September 1, 2015.

- Whispered Kisses (Revised Edition): My first poetry collection will be revised (errata corrected) and re-released in the online store, with PDF and e-reader formats available. Release Date: October 1, 2015.

- Hellbreaker: I won't be releasing a physical book for this piece. Instead, the work will be available in 2 versions: 

    1. A snazzy, $5.00 PDF that will include additional material, and

    2. A $20 'deluxe edition' that will include a signed data CD of 27 songs inspired by the work as well as the Hellbreaker PDF, shipped in a jewel case with an authentic CD cover (also signed), and shipped to you by mail. Only  25 of these will be made, preorders start now. Release Date: October 31, 2015.

- My Juliet: Once the tale of Poet and Juliet is complete (about 10 parts left in all), the whole thing will be revised and expanded, and released as a 5x8" paperback book (a standard that all future book releases will follow going forward). PDF and e-reader versions will be available, as well as a limited number of signed presale copies. Release Date: February 14, 2016.

- Sonnets: This will be a pocket-sized, book containing revisions of all 100 sonnets from both poetry collections, plus 100 original ones. PDF and e-reader formats will be available. Release Date: Summer, 2016.

- O' Nine Tales: A visceral collection of 9 narrative poems that explore the darker, more dangerous aspects of love (the title refers to a 'cat of nine tails': a whip used for physical torture). Containing works both familiar and new, this will be a great addition to your 'after hours' bookshelf, PDF collection or e-reader. Release Date: Fall, 2016. 

- Passion's Echoes (Revised Edition): My second poetry collection will be revised (errata corrected) and re-released alongside Whispered Kisses in the online store. Both books will be in the standard 5x8" format, with PDF and e-reader formats available. Release Date: Winter, 2016. 

- Whispered Kisses, Vol. 2 (Spring 2017)

- Sonnets, Vol. 2 (Summer 2017)

- Passion's Echoes, Vol. 2 (Fall/Winter 2017)

- 'My Athena' (February 14, 2018)

That last one was going to be a surprise, but I have no patience. ;) This is a tentative schedule, so things may change (and regular poetry will continue in the meantime), but this is the plan so far, so I'll be busy writing poetry for a long while. 

Thanks for reading, everyone. 'My Juliet' continues tomorrow. 

- Jack

Compatible Monsters - 5

A battle rages in each human soul:

A war betwixt his virtue and his vice;

His hungers versus his humanities, 

The dark side of his nature 'gainst his light.

Each of us is burdened with the choice

To weigh the common good against our needs --

To put the needs of others 'fore our own;

Such is the human experience.

Some souls are stripped of innocence too soon,

Forced to measures drastic, to survive.

There exists no sin in self-defense,

But from the aftermath, survivors crawl

They are not healed, nor even as they were:

The demons of our pasts have hooks for teeth--

Though many come through such abuse in time,

Some become the monster to be feared. 

The girl has only ever known abuse,

Her body and her mind both dragged through Hell.

Mother kept her mouth shut, out of fear,

Each boyfriend more a scumbag than the last.

They'd set eyes upon the little girl,

Mother having long since lost her youth;

Bitterness and jealousy took root:

"You seduced them. This is what you get."

The light within her soul has been snuffed out;

She knows no joy-- just pain, and seething rage.

A feral creature, wild and dangerous,

Devoid of mercy or compassion.

She fears the darkness and its gaping maw

Swallowing what goodness she has left,

Gnawing bit by bit, like starving bugs,

Leaving her a soulless, empty husk.

I can sense all this. She knows I can.

She knows just as I how terror smells.

So beautiful, the deadly little thing.

A pity she's so broken and confused. 

I could help -- and rest assured, I will,

But first I need her help, I do admit. 

These bodies are so finite, so fragile. 

This one will work for now, but time is short. 

What a pity, too. Such skill he has,

This man whose body I chose to possess!

An undertaker - dresser of the dead,

Whose task is to preserve death's dignity.

Unfortunate that he undressed them too,

And did unpleasant things to the bodies. 

I say "pity" mostly for his sake--

His depravity has a smell, too.

I have no light. I am darkness made flesh.

By many names I have been called, in fear.

For centuries I have wandered the world,

Seeking out the darkness in you all,

Feeding it, like raw meat to a cub,

Nuturing and coaxing it to life,

Honing your hatred to a point,

Teaching you to weaponize your hate.

This girl, however -- what a specimen!

So graceful, elegant and unrestrained;

Her body fluid, like a dancing flame 

But razor sharp, and fueled by her fury:

Beautiful, my little murder queen--

A spectacle, her dance of pain and blood.

Not once have I apprenticed one before,

But exceptions can always be made. 

I will teach her to embrace her hate;

To see it not as liability,

But as a weapon to defend herself,

Or to revel in how pure it feels

To let warm blood drip slow through her fingers,

To watch the light go out in someone's eyes,

To feast upon their final scraps of fear, 

Until they resign to the abyss.

She's perfect, my demonic little nymph. 

Her fury ripe, her mind just weak enough

To plant a seed of trust, and loyalty,

Convince her that she needs my services

To get out of this place -- and once achieved,

We'll steal away together in the night;

Two monsters, ever lurking in the dark,

A trail of bodies our dark legacy.

Of course, she may reject what that entails --

But you know who they say's in the details.

----

© Jackson Cambridge, 2015.

The Dark Goddess - 6

    Show me the filthiest toilet you've got, and I'll take you to the Pair-o-Dice Motel-slash-VLT Lobby just outside the city. This place is such a dive the roaches won't even touch it, which makes it the perfect front for whatever drug you got a taste for: coke, heroin, gambling, pussy, you name it. I fuckin' love it here. It stinks like bad judgement and desperation, but they make a damn fine coffee. 

    Manager's a former bookie I did a bid with a couple lifetimes ago named Weasel. We call him that because he looks like one of those slick weasels from the cartoons: short, beady eyes, little hands, even the dumb brightly coloured suits. Today it's bright blue. "Jesus Christ, Weasel, you look like the sky took a shit."

    "Up yours, Dumptruck." He grins and I can't help but hug the guy. Like a brother to me, the weird little bastard. "Good to see you, man! How you been?"

    "Same 'ol. Just passin' through. Lookin' for a coffee, a nap and a happy ending. Is my room ready?" 

    Weasel hesitates, and his beady eyes bore a hole in the floor. He's hiding something. "Yeah, see -- Truck, here's the thing. Somebody was in that room last night, and we haven't cleaned up in there. It's a goddamn mess, man."

    "Weez, my fuckin' car is cleaner than this dump. I'm bagged, man. Just gimme the key and deal with the mess after some shuteye."

   He steps in front of me. He's afraid. "Truck, listen to me, man. I don't want any trouble. I am an honest businessman, and--"

    "Cut the shit, Weasel." Here I go, all pleasant again. "I have had a really fucked up twenty-four hours. I need a shower, a nap and a coffee. One way or another, I'm going to my room. You can be my little spoon, or you can move your loony ass out of my way."

    He swallows hard. "Truck, please..."

    "I hate repeating myself, Weez." He moves. "Good deal." I grab the key and head to my room, tired of everything. Tired of the darkness, tired of the stink of sex and death and blood, and the relentless pulpy, chewing noise in my ears, those baby bird mouths opening and closing, bursting from my flesh like newborn hatchlings, desperate for sustenance. 

      The door's been broken into, and I can smell more death. There's a body in there, the darkness whispers. If it's already dead, we can feast. 

    'No,' I whisper, slowly pushing the door open with one hand, and pulling a knife from my jacket with the other. 'Nobody's feasting on a damn thing. I'm going to take a look at what the hell's in there, and then I'm gonna shower and nap, dead guy or not."

    I walk into the room and it's a bloodbath. Some poor bastard's been stripped down, tied to the bed, and vivisected. I can see exposed organs and tissues, and even his heartbeat, though it's slow and faint. "Holy God," I barely notice whispering, "this guy's still alive."

    I don't notice right away, but there's a message scrawled in blood above his head. His blood (they smell the same), but he didn't write it:

I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT BE HUNGRY, SO I LEFT YOU SOME TAKEOUT. 

It takes me a minute to put it all together, but once I recognize the guy, I exhale in relief. "Hello, Sphincter." 

She's playing with me. Forcing me to feed, making me want to. Making me crave the taste of terror and tendon and bone. Presenting me with a reward for chasing her -- one I can't resist, because the fucker was rude to me. 

    He's barely alive, but the baby birds under my flesh don't care. Stripping down to my boxers, I lie in the mess and let the darkness and its insane slurping, crunching and lapping take care of it. My mind connects Weasel's light blue suit with robin's egg blue (like baby fuckin' birds) and I lean over and puke on the floor. 

'Thank you, my Goddess,', I whisper after finishing Sphincter off, showering and collapsing on the cleaner part of the bed. 

"I am coming for you."

----

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2015.

    

My Juliet - 5 : 5

Weak and filthy, Poet moans on waking,

Wincing 'gainst the pain inside his head;

Waiting for the world to finish shaking,

He's still alive, but wishes he were dead.

His bedroom is a vomit-soaked nightmare.

Poet hasn't showered in o'er a week,

Having done nothing and gone nowhere,

At least 4 days of beard upon his cheek.

An irony, or cruelest twist of fate;

He even failed to end it properly.

A scream to no one, full of pain and hate,

"What good can come from life in misery?"

Poet sobs there, wretched and unstable,

And still ignores the box upon the table.

----

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2015.

Sonnet - Blaze

Hot breath mingles -- first exquisite kiss,

Skin electric, pulling at our clothes,

Flesh on flesh, engulfed in tactile bliss,

Dripping sweat, entranced in passion's throes.

Every scrap of clothing hits the floor, 

Merciless kissing, moaning 'round our lips;

Engines running hot as ne'er before,

Desperate fingers squeezing both her hips.

Smouldering, we reach a fever pitch,

Frantically, our bodies twist and coil,

We rise together -- both our voices hitch, 

Our ecstasy brought to near-angry boil.

Finally, when lust can go no higher,

We smoulder in our passion's dwindling fire.

-- 

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2015.

Trial of the Lilithite - Introduction

My name at birth: Ben Collingsworth,

A former Magistrate;

For what we did, my tears I hid

And no longer shall I wait.

Dark memories stored in the Year of our Lord

Sixteen eighty seven;

The tale within steeped in my sin;

Confess'd to earn passage to Heaven.

A debt I owe, so thou shalt know

The town on which we trod,

And how it fell straight into hell,

In the name of the Lord, our God.

My Lord - I beg -- this powder keg

Was not my heart's design;

My life near spent, I thus repent!

My soul He shan't malign.

And so I sit, and in blood writ,

Recount the terrible loss:

So many poor souls, now buried in holes, 

Six feet 'neath Tucker's Cross.

----

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2015.

Compatible Monsters - 4

Her claws sink deep in Chuck's bewildered face;

She's overcome, consumed by mindless rage,

Chuck's skin shredded in bloody ribbons,

Screaming at her to get off of him,

Her eyes dark and empty, bloodthirsty,

Looking into them, Chuck begs for help, 

But the laughing man is quite impressed --

He thinks the whole scene is beautiful.

Inside her head, her demons howl and cheer,

Dancing in the flames of their passion,

Coaxing her to rip and shred and slice.

She revels in it, caution tossed aside,

Chuck's blood soaks her dress, clots in her hair,

Splashes walls and floor in red freshets

And still she punishes the orderly;

He's only got a few more minutes left.

Chuck's no longer recognizable.

Screaming tapers down to whimpered moans.

His face is cut to ribbons, soaked in blood;

A crimson pool in which floats his left eye,

Two teeth and wet clumps of his hair.

"Please," he begs the laughing man, "help me--

This crazy bitch will kill me, don't you see?"

"Oh yes," the man says calmly, "I see that."

"I would help you, Charles -- you know I would.

We've always had a fairly good rapport,

And you've never been disrespectful,

But we both know, Charles, just what you are;

Please don't insult my intelligence

By pretending your motives were pure;

You bit off far more than you could chew.

How did you think this was going to end?

I could stop the girl at any time.

One word, and she will go straight back to bed

As if nothing's happened here at all. 

I won't, of course - that would be unfair;

She's been violated quite enough,

I can't deny the poor thing her revenge,

Could I? What kind of friend would I be?

Besides, she's an artist, don't you think?"

A moment as Chuck's good eye widens, scared,

As realization of his doom hits hard.

Pain and terror take their awful toll;

He can't escape her - he's lost too much blood,

Lying there as she sits on his chest,

He begs her not to kill him, let him go,

"Too late," she hisses. "I'm done listening."

And with one final slice, opens his throat.

The laughing man springs off his metal cot.

"Quickly, darling -- grab that ring of keys."

His voice is calm, almost comfortable,

At home amidst Chuck's blood and gurgling noises.

Slowly, she stands, hair clumped 'round her face,

Predatory eyes, reptilian and dark,

Her gaze hollow, staring at nothing.

"Grab his throat and hold it shut, my love.

We can't let him bleed out on the floor."

"Why not," she growls, "the damage has been done.

You know this piece of shit deserves to die!"

"Yes," comes his reply, "but darling, please.

You're of no use in solitary.

Besides, you're not a killer. Not just yet --

Unlock the door, and slide him over here."

She grabs Chuck's keys. He grabs her by the arm.

"Oh God, please -- don't leave me here with him!

I made a mistake. I see that now,

And I would rather snuff out my own life

Than be left alone at his mercy.

I am a monster, absolutely, 

But you don't know what he's capable of. 

She snarls at him. "Let go of me, asshole."

She hesitates before she approaches.

"If I let you out, you swear to me

I won't have more blood upon my hands."

"Absolutely, love. You have my word

I will be on my best behaviour,

But we mustn't dally, little one;

Slide the keys, and I'll do it myself,

And you and I will leave this horrid place.

She slides the keys across the crimson tiles,

And as he picks them up, he sees the blood and smiles.

----

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2015.

2015-08-16 - Book Update

Good day all,

I wanted to take a moment to keep you all informed as to the status of the new book, and tell a little about myself and the book development process.

Once the book is complete, I have to upload it to the distribution site, and order a "proof copy" (the 'second' draft) to make sure there are no glaring mistakes. This time around, there were photo resolution issues, so the product looked really blurry, pixellated and ultimately unacceptable. 

Having fixed all those things (along with layout adjustments, typos, page numbers and poem order), the second proof copy is on its way. Once in hand, I have to hope it looks as good as I want it to before the final product goes out there. 

Last week I was dealing with an illness, slo there was a bit of a delay in getting this done, but it's done. 'Passion's Echoes' will be officially released September 1, 2015, and while those who pre-ordered signed copies may not get their books until after that date, you'll still have them before anyone else. :)

Thank you for your patience, everyone. I want to give you the best product I can, and am working tirelessly to make that happen. 

Enjoy your Sunday, loves.

- Jack

My Juliet; 5 : 4

Poet knows not the hour of the night,

Nor why the world must bend, twist and contort;

His balance and perception isn't right,

He tries to stand, but keeps on falling short.

Weeping, Poet knows his end is nigh,

And prays forgiveness for his many sins. 

He bows his head and whispers soft, 'goodbye'--

-- and that is when the vomiting begins.

Heaving, doubled over on the floor, 

Terrified he'll die in agony;

It doesn't cease for hours; maybe more...

Until there's nothing left in him to see. 

When morning comes, it seems the purge is done,

But it'll be days before he sees the sun.

----

© Jackson Cambridge, 2015

Compatible Monsters - 3

He can tell she's not really asleep,

Her breathing shallow, but deliberate.

She's injured - he can smell her blood from here,

Along with Chuck the orderly's cologne.

He'll be here soon, so best to work fast;

The first thing to be done is gain her trust, 

Show her that they're in this together,

And show her how to weaponize her rage. 

"I know you're not asleep," his voice whispers,

"And that's alright - you don't have to answer.

I know you don't trust me, little one,

But there are bigger threats in here than I;

Chuck the orderly (I call him Charles)

Has an appetite for helpless, broken girls.

I saw him look at you the other day;

He plans to have his way with your body."

"I saw that look too," she whispers back.

"Good," he mutters, "then you understand,

I wouldn't tell you this without a point:

Chuck's a predator, but so are you. 

I'll tell him you knocked yourself out cold,

And that I will look the other way.

He'll unlock your cell, tiptoe inside,

And you can scratch out both his rapist eyes."

She doesn't speak, but ponders carefully;

Orderlies don't carry guns, but still,

Something doesn't sit well in her gut.

A long pause, then: "What's in it for you?"

The softest laugh floats through the dark cell block.

"I don't like rapists," he remarks, aloof.

"I've wanted to kill him for some time,

But truthfully, I think you need it more."

Whistling while rolling down the hall,

Chuck and his cart rumble through the doors.

"Morning, sweethearts -- time to eat breakfast."

"Hello Charles -- I trust you're doing well;

Sadly, I'll be eating by myself,

As it seems the girl's knocked herself out."

"What a shame," Chuck says, with little grin,

"We hadn't got to know each other yet."

Chuck tries to hide his predatory grin,

But this inmate knows it all too well;

He could smell the sin all over him.

"Yes," he muses, "poor thing's quite a mess.

I expect she'll be asleep for quite awhile --

Doesn't she look peaceful, lying there?

And so pretty -- what an utter shame

She's lost her mind, and some memory, too."

"That is a shame," says Chuck with hungry eyes,

"She looks deadly -- I like badass girls.

I bet a night with her would be intense.

Too bad she's a nutjob, am I right?"

"Oh yes," the monster says, "she's quite insane,

Barely conscious, to tell you the truth --

I doubt she can tell what's real or not, 

I don't even think she knows her name."

Chuck's heard everything he needs to know.

Glancing at her limp form on the bed,

Licks his lips and fumbles with his keys;

"I should prolly check her anyway,

Besides, I owe her for this bitemark, yeah?"

"Absolutely," monster says, grinning.

"Believe me, Charles -- I understand you, friend. 

"If you like, I'll turn the other way.

She listens to them speak, and doesn't move;

Trying not to grin, she bites her tongue

So hard her eyes are flooded with her tears.

She hears the pervert playing with his keys, 

The squealing of the cell door's rusty hinge,

Smells his body odour, hides a gag, 

Does her best to slow her own heartbeat,

And steels herself for what she needs to do.

Giant keyring hangs from open door;

Chuck takes a deep breath, closes his eyes,

And when he opens them, they're cold and blank.

Staring at her, he grabs her shoulders,

Flips her over, licks his lips, and smiles.

"You're gonna pay for biting me, lil' bitch."

He loosens the straightjacket, pulls it free,

And takes ten sharpened fingers to the face.

Lying back and listening happily,

The monster revels in death's symphony.

----

My Juliet; 5 : 3

Handful after handful down his throat,

Gagging on the sterile, chalky taste;

It shouldn't end on such an ugly note,

But life without her's better off erased.

 

"I'm sorry, love," he whispers in the gloom,

"I don't know how to do this on my own,

A ghost I have become, haunting this room, 

I can't handle all this hurt alone."

 

The tears roll down the sadder Poet gets,

As drowsiness descends, he sits and hums;

His heart and soul forever Juliet's,

Even as the silent darkness comes. 

 

Collapsing on the bed, he shuts his eyes

And waits to see his love beyond the skies.

 

----

 © Jackson Cambridge, 2015.

(To be continued.)

My Juliet, 5 : 2

His quill has gathered dust since Juliet passed,

The inspiration's left him, it would seem.

Clueless as to how long this will last;

He barely sleeps, and rarely does he dream. 

Shallow and indulgent he's become;

A nameless girl sleeps naked in his bed. 

He feels like garbage -- likely too much rum,

Pain, like thunder, rumbles through his head.

Rising from his bed at nearly dusk, 

Going through the motions, dead inside; 

Shambling through the days an empty husk,

Knowing there's but one end to this ride.

He grabs the pills from out the medicine chest,

First takes two, then swallows all the rest. 

----

© Jackson Cambridge, 2015.

(To be continued, I promise.)

Compatible Monsters - 2

An orderly named Chuck pushes a cart;

It's breakfast time in cell block 23.

He doesn't like this part of the prison

In spite of only two inmates down there,

But Chuck has his opinions about them.

'That new girl is a total basketcase,

Slaughtered both her parents in their home,

And left them soaking in tubs full of bleach.

Pity she's completely lost her mind --

She'd be a looker, if she wasn't nuts.

Long dark hair, halfway down her back,

The body of a gymnast, toned and firm,

Wild, dark eyes, filled with pain and fear

And rage. Don't get close enough to touch,

She has no problem injuring herself, 

And even less issue with hurting me.'

He glances at the bitemark on his hand;

A souvenir from when he dropped his guard:

He saw her there, slumped in the corner,

And, trying to be helpful, took her arm

To help her up, and paid for that mistake.

Entirely his fault -- he knows the rules,

No touching the inmates, at any time.

He won't be breaking that rule anymore.

'Still, she bit me, and she's got to pay;

'I can't let a thing like that just slide;

These filthy inmates need to know who's boss.'

Sedatives, in case she isn't calm,

Perhaps a little extra for her, yeah?

Maybe come and visit her at night

Quietly, and teach her some respect.

Every dog can learn how to obey.

But what about the inmate right next door?

Chuck's pretty sure that psycho never sleeps--

But even if his deeds are overheard,

Who's going to believe a lunatic?

'But that's not the real issue, is it, Chuck?

The reason that you're second guessing this

Is because you've read the monster's file,

And what he is scares the hell out of you.'

Chuck's been working here less than a year,

And has dealt with murderers before. 

Many of them are intelligent,

Well-mannered and polite within these walls--

But one mustn't forget why they are here:

They're dangerous -- spilled more than their share

Of innocent blood - and would spill again,

But that inmate is the worst of all. 

His body count is yet unverified,

But he's confessed to over sixty kills.

He knew each of his victim's names by heart,

And details the police left unreleased;

But never took a single souvenir --

Nor did he leave any evidence;

Had he chose not to turn himself in,

They never would have captured him at all.

He preyed upon the high society;

(He claimed they were of little moral worth)

Hid in shadow till the moment came,

Immobilized his victims, stripped them down,

Bathed them, trimmed their hair and fingernails,

Dressed them, even did makeup and hair. 

Not too graphic, but that's not the end --

It's what he did with them before they died.

Chuck has seen some most disturbing things

Within the files of those contained in here:

Cannibalism, necrophilia,

Depravities to make the stomach turn--

Images Chuck wishes he'd unsee.

But this inmate -- his work is unique;

Every victim found was found alive

Despite the agony they must have felt.

Not all victims were dispatched this way,

Only at the height of his career;

Some were found in random shallow graves,

Some in unexpected hidden spots.

Those chosen to become his works of art

Were strung up like bloody marionettes,

Posing them in macabre tableaus

Revealing their transgressions to the world.

If evil were to have a human face,

Thank God it's well contained inside this place. 

 ----

 © Jackson Cambridge, 2015.

Sonnet - Fog

Like a stone, I'm sinking in the black,

Sucked down by its pow'rful gravity,

Helplessly I flail in count'rattack,

Screaming silent, as it swallows me.

Dark down here, and quiet as the void, 

My every thought confused, in disarray;

The type of thing to make one paranoid 

Mayhap this confusion's here to stay.

And what of that? I cannot keep control

Of when this fog will come -- nor do I know

Of what to do if it devours me whole,

And the madness never  lets me go.

Take my hand, love; guide me through the haze,

And I shall follow thee for all my daze.

----

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2015.

My Juliet; 5 : 1

Poet, barely conscious, steeps in guilt

And pickled in some kind of alcohol,

Surrounded by the life that they had built,

A stack of empties leaned against the wall.

Her absence still hangs heavy in the air;

Such sorrow in the three months she's been gone,

Waking in the night, hoping she's there,

Forgetting that she's lost to the beyond.

The hospital sent home her box of things;

It sits upon the counter, growing dust,

He cannot bear it-- he's not strong enough,

He will not open it until he must.

Ignoring both his email and his phone,

He lies there drinking, empty and alone.

----

© Jackson Cambridge, 2015.