It’s
impure attraction, or pure fascination, this current of villains; as spacial
fuses, abused by luxuries, at graces to commit sin; that fatal transgression,
as sweet as nectar, this bale of souls; as torn affection, writhing in
torments—too eager your womb; this tractor of shards, that hunger of serpents,
those leviathan lusts; while afar that cry, permeated by mauve skies, cringing
for crawling and awkward. I knew hell’s emotion, threshed through by glass,
that cup but see-through ammonia: that passionate ache, as winning death, those
blades severing injustice: our awakened woes, pillow to screams, aware by chance
that inflammation; this basic nightmare, sprinkled through confetti, pouring
into an uneasy stomach; to die this living, while pulled tightly, at wounds,
this drastic fire. We came through
farness, this ideal fairness, as favor is unjust—this panic of souls, those
bowels of oceans, flowing through kef our agonies. I hurt to see you, flaming
in imperfections, a bit too proud to die; I hate to lose you, screaming at
mirrors, too extreme to perish; this force of chaos, to have it by justice,
head to armor that amore—as casual sadness, or reckless joy, a tear by
intoxication: that measure of solitary, if but that glimpse, as scraping
barrels of insanity; where doves coo, as pigeons stumble, while aches are
soaked in kerosene—this flammable love, our souls kryptonite, at volume this
spark as music—to flourish through agonies, this inverted anguish, to cherish
your womb; this soul in men, to want by changes, this art as secluded; but days
are death, those inward travels, from Canada to Rome—that entered our lives,
screaming at ceilings, a bit too torn for closure—as rapturous love, betrayed
through lusts, while at tares to whittle an inscription. We live as phantoms,
upbraided by theologies, treading this turquoise desert—where scorpions roam,
as seeking bloodshed—this carnage as explosive; to gnaw by brains, shadowed in
perfections, this misery of candidates: our luxurious scar, too forbidden to
jettison, where pains cry of ultimate mercy—that inner touch, as potent as gasoline,
as lethal as neighboring flames—our oils to life, as never such happiness, as
just enough that core mixture—to break eternity, this night of warlocks, that
season of wiccans; as casual fools, drooling for baptisms, at locks where keys
are melting; this pleasure of lives, while purring ecstasy, flooded through
with razors; this ancient arrival, as sinning through lace, that tale of souls.
We’re living by chains, a fever for ashes, as a phoenix that ritual—where times
are shortened, alive by fastness, at worries that three day fast—while terror
breeds, this cycle of souls, a ghost by treasures our faith—to see as humans,
this must for change, while afraid of losing life—this course in minds, as more
to glisten, while petrified of normalcy—that space as karnac, our years at
aging—debating that moment to rear children.
