Executing the Leprechaun

Tearing open. Skin like wrapping paper. The first of many gifts. Sucking on. Tits like calculators. Square roots of zero again. Adjusting the manifold. To compensate for trajectory. Resistance. Bitten fingers on the go button. The maggots in her throat hatching. Flies for the words. Bits of soap and paper towel in the corner of the room.

Nervous epiphanies. The mouse's tail in the cat's claws. Culling the years in slivers of men. Going. Gone. The illusion of power that time portends to grant. In a heave of faith. A bloody stumble close to the entrance.

The tree. Too bright too see us. The doorway too wide to let us enter.

The patterns persist despite her denials. Paltry gods on the rim of our discontent. Kill their sons. In a deus ex machina. Desperate circles try to fit those squares inside themselves.

The hours lapse. Into unpleasant gypsies of touch. The nomad. The explorer. The dead man in all his bravado. Still fears the woman.

All this distance.

Takes me no further.