The Femme II.
The crimson fluid cascades into the delicate crystal of a sensual curve. It is the vilest form of life. It spills with the Moon and croons with the miserable flesh of a forsaken room.
He is the afternoon of a chaste life, whispering Latin tunes in synthetic waves. His eyes are black with lust and hidden disgust. The slender dots of red, green, and blue sing a requiem for the lost folklore.
The creeping tingle of the stranger’s presence basks over the fields of famine. I glow under the tutelage of human experience, and fall under the grace of a holy power.
Hail the Drunken God!
Hail the angel of the sleaze!
the grimy power of dead currency!
It is a nasty skin that I lick
and a nourishing flavor I worship.
A lovable caress.
The juice that Saves.
Savor the tender crusts of a body
and breathe the misty air.