huddled up in a ball in a street,
hugging our legs embossed with the intrusive
criss-cross markings
that never seem to leave
explicitly exposed in the red light.
They--an unspoken peoples--
are the rash of the centuries
the red mark that has consumed your skin
leaving you nothing but the fearful vicarious conditioning
of your mothers heart
and the hot breath you breathe at last during the winter spell
before you are whisked into the warm corridors of
home.

A kiss
will suffice, no,
but the chapters of the autobiography
tell otherwise, as Marina Del Rey's siren
calls for you to bathe in her ***** filled waters.
Till thus you'll be clean once more, you and your lover
forever gone forevermore.