“I would imagine death as a cellar full of paintings”

Landscapes. Portraits.  Canvas dripping watercolour or squirming in acrylic. Paper pores closing their mouths as the smell of life turned cold permeates the room.  Paper pores squeezing their eyes shut tight to the darkness. Colours greying with the damp running in rivulets down the walls and they breathe - collapsed lungs beneath wrinkled skin.  Landscapes. … Continue reading “I would imagine death as a cellar full of paintings”

Our last

our last bullet held in the chamber of the revolver we hold between us, straddling dining chairs facing one another: you spin the mechanism into place, readying the roulette, one last bullet - is it for you or for me? the stars, the skies and the seas in between.     Poem: © Kristiana Reed 2020 … Continue reading Our last


Bric-a-brac tumbled, jumbled, across the shelves, scattered in dusty glass cases: broaches, pins, postcards and teacups, shoes, letter openers and model trains, infested with age, idleness and the odd ear wig, next to the closet of death - an under the stairs space with screaming stags and boars pinned to the walls; too many squirrels … Continue reading Taxidermy

Hanging Moon

Sometimes I wonder which would be better: death or insomnia?   Because I cannot withstand the in-between. Cold nights tumbling in and out of dreams. Dreams of dying, dreams of living, dreams of running toward a hanging moon; taking the rope from around its pale withering neck and binding my wrists to the ground.   … Continue reading Hanging Moon


What do you say when a twelve-year-old asks you if we're dying? Three doors presented themselves. The first stately and indifferent, through which I'd feign disinterest and parade my selective hearing. The second scientific and nonchalant, which promises a cocktail of truth without feeling, shaken not reassured. The final, pulses red and glows pink like … Continue reading 8:40