David Estringel is a ‘2019 Best of the Net’ and ‘2019 Over the Edge New Writer of the Year’ nominee, whose work has been accepted and/or published by Specter Magazine, Literary Juice, Foliate Oak Magazine, Terror House Magazine, Expat Press, 50 Haikus, littledeathlit, Down in the Dirt Magazine, Route 7 Review, Setu Bilingual Journal, Paper Trains Literary Journal, The Elixir Magazine, Soft Cartel, Harbinger, The Blue Nib, Fishbowl Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Rigorous Magazine, Corvus Review, Spillwords.com, Proletaria Journal, Cherry Magazine, Bleached Butterfly, Poetry Pea (Haiku Pea), Sub Rosa Zine, TL;DR Press, Spit Poet Zine, Arthut, ICOE Press, Logos, Poetizer, Channillo, and The Good Men Project along with many, many more. David’s first book of poetry and prose Indelible Fingerprints was published by Alien Buddha Press April 2019. David can be found on Twitter (@The_Booky_Man) and his website at http://davidaestringel.com.
(originally published at Cajun Mutt Press) We implode— explode— in raptures of liquid light that set the skin to sizzle on the spit like slow-cooked meat, pulled apart in greedy clutches, peeling skin from skin, limb from limb, sinew from bone until all is gone, fallen away in shreds and trickles. Tongues prodding, hungrily, for the taste of coppery bliss of chewed lips. Beautiful bodies— diminished into heartbeats and exhales of viscera and vasculature with eyelids, aflutter— fade into black, into white, into black, again— dick-teasing, mind-fucking strobes of abstract consciousness. Hand-in-hand, together, we die little deaths, again… again… and again— every morning, a resurrection.
(originally published at Cajun Mutt Press) Green is the taste of bitter rind that lingers on your fingertips, cutting through the sweetness of icebox orange smiles bursting on my tongue, lovingly fed, conjuring the salty sting of solitude’s imminence, as if a shade. How dreaded the tic-toc of the clock— rhythmic shower of dying heartbeats— hanging, sourly, above us in white clusters, promising much, offering little but that which is within our fleshy grasps. Before dawn breaks and you slip away—a shadow fleeing the Eye of Day— you reach backward, hand upon wanting hip, pulling me inward, stopping time if but for a second longer. O morning thief! I am bound by your fragrant tethers that permeate, infiltrate ‘the everything’ under my skin through the hole in my chest that once held a beating heart, long-since cast at the pink of your delicate arches. My soul quivers as you turn and smile, then walk away, leaving behind your indentions and a tattered Lorca, tossed afloat in the rising, orange currents of morning. Still, I am drawn to the darkness of my corners, where Death has found a home. The purity of her black light defines, reveals all within this drowned world of light and shadow. There is no love without fear of absence, no hope without doubt, no fulfillment without the memory of Hunger’s dull stabs. We savor and rejoice these fleeting moments— all that is good under God’s blue heaven— for in the end all we are left with…all that is true… is that cold taste of green.