SHARKPACK Poetry Review

An imprint of FATHOMBOOKS.

For St. Valentine: JILTED. Cyrus Console.


Without a moment’s warning we were on the red sofa in the common
area, the floor lamps drawing themselves subtly, assuredly to full
height. It was then I witnessed for the first time the ritual burning of
flowers. A column of thick yellow smoke welled in the acrylic
chamber of the archetype. Had there been music playing before?

The assumed a terrifying comeliness, they glinted like a caravan
threading some dunes. The wine again they brought out, and I drank
of the wine, and was drunken, and I lay, cheated, and stole. Each time
the sweet smoke mounted to my head it seemed to pronounce, this is
your life now. 
Moments later, as the throng of sparrows the hedge
concealed commenced their nonlinear song, I smiled, whispering, yes,
it is.

And so once again I had ruined everything.

Cyrus Console

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