Last night, I dreamed I was holding the withered bones of an estranged relative in my arms, she being wound in her shroud. My mother, sitting in a chair with rotted teeth, a bleeding, infected mouth, begged me, 'Do not hold her thus!'; but I lie with her regardless, hearing her murmur, though she were dead.
Getting up, after the act of love, I put a cloth across her face.
'Angels see thee to thy rest.'
I had drained the life from this one; for, years ago, she had drained the life from me. I had loved her unto death.
Thirty-six poems by experimental musician and outsider artist Tom B. Molotov is the first collection of his poetry ever published. These brief versification and black forays into the world of dreams and nightmares span an era of ten years, and cycles of subconscious communications with that ineffable OTHER only a living, sentient but alien soul can perceive. Erupting from the burning, nauseous gut of a terminal outsider, one who takes his cues from his sleeping brain (wired into the vast, Universal Conscious Awarness), the poetry of Molotov boils over with a malignant rage at a world gone mad; but, still looks, with an eager, mystic eye, at a world that is invisible, unborn, and, certainly, one that is Yet To Come. These poems are the visions and hallucinations of a raving seer, the guttural dirge of an anarchic and possessed brain. Cover painting "Untitled 2019" by the author.