Death Glazed over in distress, gouged eyeballs roll to the ceiling, tongue hangs from mouth like cellophane parched in the microwave. Then softly, the entrails explode, no fireworks, no flame, no pop, just a quiet caving in. Melting, bubbling, like boiling butter the remnants of our relationship die in a catastrophic, diseased mess. ~ Composed by Mary Duffy, Laura Cardoso, Don Simpson, Bonnie Nish, Heather Neale and Sita Carboni The Kitsilano Writers Group Back to the Kits Writers Page Home