Anatomically correct ghosts.

With a partnership of eyes sewn into the palm of the hand, the lights became slowly dimmed until all in the room could see nothing but the whites of the eyes.

Half a fucking hour.

(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)

Let it fall like a curtain. The majority of us are meant to perish.

This pensive term of pregnancy, both fragile and persevered, yielded in its nuanced expulsion an exoskeleton quite unlike all previous applied terms. The genesis of the child, coiled within a pasty egg yellow cocoon and writhing in the hands of an aghast deliverer, created something of an instance in panic and somaesthetic wailing in the small kitchen. The wine glasses on the racks underneath the cupboards rattled. The child, from within its skin, screamed into the misty morning air with a succinct pop not entirely dismissive of the refrain heard from a champagne uncorking. And that is when it was discovered the child’s head had collapsed in on itself; under what strain, we were helpless to uncover. We were helpless in the room where blood and stripped placenta slicked the green-tiled floor, and the faces of our guardian angels became twisted with equal portions of envy, rage and complete wonder.

(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)

Hold your hand in the sea, brush up against urchins in the dark.

I pulled you closer to where I was by holding on to your dress. In the dark, in the water, it was hard to make out anything but the white parts of your eyes. You were blinking rapidly and that’s how I found you without having to say anything out loud; both of us were too frantic to speak anyway. Up on the porch above another gunshot exploded out in the flood night, so close to where we were underneath him that my skull rang like a bell, felt like it would burst. It wouldn’t end until he’d killed all of us. Me and you huddled in the rising water under the porch as the storm covered up the sound of our father’s shotgun. Crouching down, the water was up to our shoulders now. I kissed you on your damp cheek and tasted soil and garbage from the flood water tearing up our street.

IRREGULAR SEWING PATTERNS - 105 Portraits By Jaret Ferratusco.

It is not above as it is below the Heavens.

(View full gallery on Corpse On Pumpkin’s page at Facebook.)

A skeleton is standing on top of the house. Like a weather vane.

The reflection of yourself in shimmering water at the very edge of a lake is haunting. On the one hand you’re curious but on the other, curiosity is temperamentally displaced. In its absence there is just fear and lonesomeness. The mirror image that moves; the part of you that is so beautiful … it will elude you.