The echoing moans of lost lovers
Trill in the mysterious streets of blue.
The whispers of an orphaned little brother
Singe skin and crust sickly eyelids like glue.
Coins slam the bar with a ringing fury.
Drums snap through the hordes of the pale glories.
Tonight I warm myself with calm whoring;
I’ll stretch out in the fine helm of stories.
The somber reflections in the water
Weep a stream of tears for the ancient ways.
The swaying meditation goes further
In the void’s miserable, nebulous haze.
Burning with the secret rail of acid.
There is no hope in this bitter passage.
The red sauce burns between the dampening lips,
In the folds of a puffy sort of flesh.
Gentle cries fill the air of a messy kiss,
A love that can never be shared with the rest.
Your image is scorched upon my heart. My blessed blood flows with the smell of your gentle perfumery, like the elegant days before redemption. You are a fruit exposed to a thirsting mouth; you floweth into a needy world. The warmth of your grace envelopes my bony fingers and overwhelms me.
I know that I deserve no kind of delight. A creature bound by the night has locked away my every pleasure. The shameful begging slithers out of me during the weak mornings. The seven colors of the Sun shimmer in an occult prayer.
Trumpets ache with piety,
singing airs to joy.
The red bass bounces in the sonorous feast
of an onerous love.
To be held in judgment
is a terror known only to humanity.
To caress is a bliss
known to all vivacity.
In a blistering winter’s night comes rain,
Whispering spirits of a softer day.
Murmurs which haunt a somber kind of pain.
A chill’s tender tongue flicks and flays.
The air, besieged by crystal, breathes
And sways in a wanton waltz of blue.
The rust singes the brittle lips and sings
What only the cradle of the breast soothes.
In the calm flare of a lingering breath,
We wrote an immortal book of the wretch.
Kissing under the gallows, we steal death,
Lest we scribble an ominous sketch.
Hide not from the rattling skeleton,
It breathes through the air we take refuge in.
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.