she picked up the gun for… whatever reason. do you want a reason? i think you can imagine one. and does she even need one?

the first was a guy in the bathroom she was forced to use. it was simple self-defence. let’s say that. coated the urinal in his lower jaw. spinning kaleidoscope of teeth hovering in the air in front of her black eyes. feels around for his heart, and bursts it like a grape.

little glass petals between her fingertips. blades of steel-sheen grass raze her thighs, wishing for death, or simple undoing, unbeing. tear her tights to shreds. wishing for consummation.

the second was a guy on the streets at night. i guess she just didn’t feel safe. the gun came out of his mouth, the bullet shattering his front teeth. saw his soul for a second, apathetic man-spirit wretched in slathering red moss, crawling its way to heaven.

exposed nerve endings reaching like knotted branches through her pores. aestus cleansing through the chaos. drifting onerous and blithe past a thousand severed graves. one of them stirs; she turns.

the third and fourth really deserved it, but who doesn’t. let’s say she was threatened by their presence. no time to queue, a line leading to leather death. sun thrummed a theme for soft morning as they sprawled out on concrete, their teeth detaching and gliding up gilded in the bastard light. etched with sigils, embossed with shit-stained sighs.

liver coated in limbic acid, calmed with loose leaf-borne gin, killed with satin sheets of ochre blood. deliverance. feels her teeth. loose, uneven. not a pretty sight. something now taking grip and kindly molesting her innards. could this be love?

the fifth, sixth, seventh and eighth were pigs. you can guess what they were up to. blew their brains out all over their quadruwheel rape-machine. dressed in black, eyeliner wonky, bleeding from the wrists and patched up properly with shattered sutures. semen and shit caked in their unwashed loins, sent away to permajail, shall we say. she laughs at the thought, although it lacking any wit. it was then she sought to turn the gun, but didn’t.

awkward memory of fumbling in the dark between friends and lust burning through pimples and blackheads uncaved. her own teenage gun misfiring cum into the linen socket asks what happened but breaks down in hysteria. yet now it all seems so easy. lover, come over.

the ninth didn’t deserve it, by all rights. but who fucking cares. his eyes were weird, and he was watching. cleaned him out and arranged his teeth in a semicircle around his head, both aspects made divine in the face of future shootings. it’s getting serious now. summer of samantha. terf island rocked by tragedy. but it’s not a tragedy—we know that. only we. for we can see the inside, and it is coated in screaming red limbic acid.

like a doll engaged in final coitus in the snow. burn me, she says, her lover’s many limbs reaching around her anticunt. is there anything after this groans receives no answer other than solar smile and patted down before the night. lover departs in black and purple light.

no reasons left now. done being dictated and taught by lesser beings. transcendence tastes like hell, like necrotic absinthe and poppers. each bone in her malformed body creaks and screams as the gun takes out the tenth, eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth, fourteenth—no way she’ll get away with this one—fifteenth, sixteenth, all the way up to the twenty-third, scattered male remains and their teeth bursting out and up, call her Anticosmochaosothanatosophia, priestess in other realms and chattal in mundanity, physicality of demiurgic rationality and putrid order, turning again to the acid, and burning up through her lover’s embrace, those many limbs that are not limbs caressing her putrid form in a ruined bed, crying out in the night, and there’s no way she’ll get away with this one.

long-haired boy she was lost in fields of nephilic flowers tumescent with amber dew, pollinated with lucid fever, knew where she was and what she was; little glass petals between her fingertips, singing so sweet, singing of grace and honey.

count up from twenty-four to fifty. she doubles her score, and how. well i guess her lover made it clear. there is an end had said her lover reaching through her abrasions of skin and muscle and peaceful at rest in solemn passivity, beautiful woman, a shade beyond, a hollow cell. a river of teeth churned in her wake, her lover crawling around her, breathing in her ear, it’s okay my love, it’s okay. the teeth arranged themselves now. the streets are naught but red, running deep with righteous blood and foaming grey filth.

last dance sweetie-pie. i’ve taken you this far. depart and find me once again. you know where.

and it’s about time. absolution was a shit-stone’s throw into the past, what a bore. surrounded, there’s no exit, and the gun clatters on concrete. collapses to her knees and screams, her form undoing and bursting into chaos-lymph, unborn nymph thrust forth, beyond the scope of manifest tyranny and onwards towards a lover of many limbs, collapsing star of cold ruin, returning warmth of solar anticunt reversed, lapsed catholic mother, goddess of the endless, basking inside each other’s entropy and at peace, at last.

— Artoria Sahnow is a Gnostic poet, music-maker and dreamer of nightmares. Her stories and poems can be found at They can be found on Twitter @jormunghast.