Revolver



The giant;
a glimpse in the rotating cylinder.

In his hand he holds the effluence of a meteor,
I sit there splitting its light,
twisting it into a new kind of disease.

When the light has lessened,
I crawl along the trenches of his fingerprints,
careful not to become debris.

And as I stumble through
the ridges, I unearth
images of our remembering deceased.




Feral



Amidst the feral blast
a new body emerges.

Feathers pluck themselves from starry skin
plummeting to
the serpent that sheds its derelict history.

My flesh will ebb,
my–
my bones will hollow,
my–
my veins will unsnarl and
stretch like rope to the cosmos.

I am waiting to fall through the thread of my clothes,
for the feathered serpent to bite,
to weave into me a lesser disguise.




Necktie



My necktie has a full set of teeth
beneath the velvet fabric,
thirty-two teeth gnashing at my chest,
grinding it to debris.




Eric Schmaltz is a writer and student who lives in St. Catharines, Ontario. His work has appeared in two of Brock University's student anthologies, as well as online at Gloom Cupboard and ditch, poetry.