Brian Alan Ellis

Posted on February 27, 2012


Coming on Wet Grass

The midnight sky has shed its tears over pick-pocketed a.m. streets, and I am the only living thing. Though, from somewhere, I hear chirping from the terrible kissing mouths of birds—somehow electric—when all else seems to have short-circuited.

Earlier, while hidden behind the old church, I watched as the lovers disappeared into an abandoned white house. There, they did it like two horny shadows. And I remember hating them because they hadn’t noticed me; I must be Ghost.

So now I lie on the wet ground, and I come on the wet grass. And my fingers are cocked like a pistol pointing straight into that big orgy above. Dreams loaded, one by one, I shoot out all the stars, one by one.

Next, I aim for the moon.

Let it be.

I kind of like the moon, how it shines its beautiful loneliness upon ugly humanity—Moon is God.

No, not the God in which you speak. In fact, the God in which you speak I will open fire upon. And like a true martyr He will fall, smiling, from His damn heaven. And I, too, will smile. And if the bastard angels choose to shower me again with love, blessed be rank and golden.


Brian Alan Ellis lives in Tallahassee, Florida. His fiction has appeared in Skive, Zygote in my Coffee, The Whistling Fire, Monkey Bicycle, Corduroy Mtn., The Big Stupid Review, DOGZPLOT, The Splinter Generation, Flashquake, Epiphany, Underground Voices, Glossolalia, Diverse Arts Project, The Single Hound, Conte, The Fine Line, Fiction Fix, Curbside Quotidian and NAP , as well as in the anthology The Incredible Shrinking Story (Fast Forward Press). He also sings for the Ex-Boogeymen, and waits patiently for Better Off Dead to receive the Criterion treatment.

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