An Excerpt from Angels, Delerium, Liberty
by
Finley J. MacDonald

A ragged carcass broke free.  Pursuers trampling behind, it hurtled low along a line of knees, clawing its way toward C.  At his foot, it paused on all fours.  The head jerked.  The eyes turned up like puddles of whey.

The hand clapped his knee.  A face like a pitted, rotten melon rose toward his.  Ropes of spittle dangled.  The maw opened, blowing rotten gas.  A shriek steamed out bare gums, and crooked hands pawed C.’s chest.  C. wrenched himself from his seat, pulling weight.  He heard a thud like a tree striking earth, saw white, and tasted copper, salt.  Over a dimming, melting crowd, his bookfloated from his hand, and he slid between legs and lifting heels.

He could hear the stamp of mechanized sledgehammers.  Lines of lanterns curved in darkness, trailing like glowing lashes.  Passing and winding, they arrived: heads with stretched skin and glowing eyes.  High above, the crone chanted, listing names, places, dates.  The sad, lit face of a boy soldier wobbled and nodded at C.  The head of an old joiner turned in the line.  A chuckle rasped from the oval mouth: watch your liver.

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Angels, Delirium, Liberty
by
Finley J. MacDonald

The House of Violence 

Poems by Finley J. MacDonald
A Reading from  The HouseFrom the House of Violence, music by Paul Copoc
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The spinning begins.  Chairs and tables snap themselves to kindling.  Dolls shriek.   Teacups tremble.  Among storms of paper,encyclopedias hurtle like kamikazes into walls with bootholes rammed through them.  Paintings yank themselves from the wall, and dishes burst from cupboards.  Appliances bash together like fragment-spraying mountain sheep.  A crushed violin weeps like a child.  Everything is muffled.  Remotely controlled.  My fists, large as beach balls, swing in slow motion.    Tumbling bottle.  Green glass spraying.  A green meteor explodes on a brick planet.  Glass splinters metamorphose into lids on the floor.  Generals, convicts, and Arabian sheiks clamber from manholes.  Standing in fire, Satan—in dented hardhat and walrus mustache—directs his armies across rivers and out onto prairie.  In a Kentucky forest, the dead break camp.  They tilt jugs and stamp arm-in-arm among bonfires spilling red stars.  A slave girl slips out of her skin and fox trots with it.  She bows deep.  The dead roar.  Behind translucent breasts, beats her heart.

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House of Violence
by
Finley J. MacDonald