He shuddered at my beauty—
sad but flattering, like it is.

And how I long to be a cat,
that lives in an antique shop.

How many times I've rode down this road on a stolen bicycle...
I know it sounds ****** up but I did what I had to,
and I'm tired and I'm cold
and maybe been broken.
Oh, Archer, oh.
Oh, golden sun,
your forgiving light,
it's warm

and I am cold.

My lord, standing fast,
with flourishing orchids private.
Love, faded spectral being, leave your grave of satin

for the warm blood of the sleeping at last.

Night-walking and undead,
skin, firm as steel.

The spring scent of flowers is rousing, heady.
I'd like for the blossom petals to rest upon my eyelashes such as a snowflake.

In my hair. And I can see my shadow hips gyrating with the rhythm of a cat, slow and smooth.

I spill beer on myself unashamed,
I like for liquid to run from my mouth,
like a lord drinking wine from a horn.

Summer nights soon,
where things dry quickly,
and I'll taste things in my throat
and smell them on my pants
for nights to come.
Inhale.
Exhale.

Living for the nights where shuddering ceases,
and one can throw a rock from a rock
in the warm moonlight.

Cloven coffee-
today the butte was shrouded in fog,
and my body was woke
so that I wanted to beg for it.
But I won't.

I can't live without the torture,
can't survive without the taste of blood.

I will be a bride to the indelible stickiness,
a lover to that which blooms.

Hold me, hold me, hold me.
I am shaken.

Burning up the road,
a relic in my ashtray,
burning up a cigarette,
a trace of sage smoke
makes me feel I am inhaling your essence.
To possess you in my lungs,
if only there,
I will swallow up your significance,
and hold it inside of me.