the anti-heroine of an era of bathtub gin, organized crime, and jazz, clouded in the smoke of fired guns and cigarettes.
“i. her name is WAR. once upon a time, her voice
was the sound of bayonets, of cavalry - now,
it’s a whisper in the right ear, hesitant fingers
pulling a very different trigger.
ii. her name is FAMINE. children hold out their hands
and beg for scraps while her belly grows full and round,
never starved but never satisfied -
would you like fries with that?
iii. her name is PESTILENCE. she sits alone
at hospital bedsides, silent amid the frantic beeping
of IV monitors and life support machines,
cold hands soothing against clammy skin.
iv. her name is DEATH. these days, she drives
a burnt-out red mustang and looks
like the faces of everyone you used to know, and
she’s hungry. her teeth shine in the darkness. god, she’s hungry.”
— the four horsewomen of the modern apocalypse | m.c.p
was the sound of bayonets, of cavalry - now,
it’s a whisper in the right ear, hesitant fingers
pulling a very different trigger.
ii. her name is FAMINE. children hold out their hands
and beg for scraps while her belly grows full and round,
never starved but never satisfied -
would you like fries with that?
iii. her name is PESTILENCE. she sits alone
at hospital bedsides, silent amid the frantic beeping
of IV monitors and life support machines,
cold hands soothing against clammy skin.
iv. her name is DEATH. these days, she drives
a burnt-out red mustang and looks
like the faces of everyone you used to know, and
she’s hungry. her teeth shine in the darkness. god, she’s hungry.”
— the four horsewomen of the modern apocalypse | m.c.p