Only the living can fear
The taste of fear is open, pure and red — a lump of meat, it’s poppies lost and flown from cries in mud, in trenches darkly bled. We harvested our […]
Category Archives: dVerse
Tea on the first day of the year
In the recess of the library, behind his least loved books there is a wormhole to the past, a void that some would call his prison and others his escape. […]
The night of Saint Lucy
Close to winter solstice Night is dressed in worsted wool, wears polished boots, his hands are pale as knives. He smiles in sickles, as he slyly whispers sordid lies and […]
Cereal killing
My bread-knife’s both benign and sharp, the kindest of my tools unless you’re loaf; the sweet one kneaded with a touch of love and baked to wheatly glutinous perfection, but […]
And it cannot by changed
When end of days are darkly bled to restless sleep and hollow laughter of rotting flesh and living dead When end of days are darkly bled the hope is waning […]
Björn Rudbergs writings 