I could tell you,
But you’d laugh at me.
Because it is bare, raw and pure.
You gloat on the preservatives.
You discard the genuine.
Listen to me, my friend, there is a part of the world, where even a bulb is never, ever, witnessed in real, but reel of the sanskrit Cartoon slots. The peppy  and ‘lone B-grade Cartoons .
Filled with Flesh.
The stories of tantric mantras, with a sliver of diminishing hearth,
on the
Dimensions and depth of the Yoni in the resin of shellac
on the Immaculate ceremony,
In a woodpecker hole just underneath the sealed power of the Yakshini who truly screws it up if you have taste of her once.
the one who harbingers drunk loners of Kavadiyattom alley after 3:20 am.
She takes them to the crown chakra of palm trees.
Shows them the world.
she pushes them off the crown and the falcon falls in endless spirals of a inhuman push that pushes the concrete innards to a danlgling mass of amoebic copulation.
Breath comes back.
It is a big nauseating gag of Kumbhakarnan's long sadya that lasted for half a decade.
Of the soma saras that made the entire India go, ga-ga and believe they've seen the god.
But not one nor any saw the same face, colour, shape or even vibe of the god they had seen alone.
They agreed in unison that all their hallucinations of beautiful humans in Flower UFO s and high-tech cloning, were a vital hair in the nostril of the cosmos.
They made, each a god out of their genuine mix of memories.
Or in the, priest's ways,
Hence, the 2.3 Billion populous of the country had the same, well, odd Spiritual benefactors.

Keeping it all aside, lemme be honest, I'd follow many a fairy god-mother but give my milkey teeny tooth to the special one.
Hinduism tells you God is omnipresent.
Hinduism tells you God is within you.
It also says, there is no God.
The clipper to snap off the confusion of this, lies in the same cheap stained-yellow cliche of love. It entails everything. You, me, animals, plants, cosmos, vibes, thoughts, dreams and the universe.
It tells you to live with your body mind and soul.
From Kamasutras that teaches sense.
The excitement, control and breakthrough of it.
Like tao did under his exposed roof without the sacred dung of from Hindu Land.
This is the secret of a rumoured Mohini,
Of her 1000 per hour ******* during the her/ his/ its 352 incarnations.
which was the reason for Big bang.  
Amidst the sultry scant of the voluptuous *******,
Their skin,
a vernacular reflection of a dusk on the Japanese gold beaches, And the mounts,
firm and glowing with the rusty shade of pharaoh’s Gold anklet.
The gooey glaze of yesterday’s glamour in the wink of a gay galore.
Paulo Ceolho’s Holy Communion with God,
Or like the Japanese Tengaman says,
Or rather screams,
That all it it takes is a little *******.
So, yes.
That precise art of attaining a consciousness, from where your mind was
Afloat
Wild
Free
Satiated
By yourself
You’ve just consumed the essence of you
Your Ojhas
And the tiny matter that teaches the universe
Of a Shunya.
That, momentary sense of lapse of your body mass,
Or the breakthrough into your eye of the crown.
Only to join the mundane bustle of the 10,00 speakers on all four
JBLs, Boses and Pioneers live looping the zillions of sanskrit mantras under one roof.
In your Ear drum.
A synechdoche of the Gods and their jacuzzi of amphetamine bubbles.
Splashed from a white Elephant's bejewelled Snout, which has the
crowned ring in your pineals.
Secret lies under
the rotten bone chip of Hussain Sagar
deep under the ***** green lake,  
drowning the rainbow Buddha in the city of slimy immortal maggots on ham.
Open your eyes.
For the Gods will
Else
Cut your eyelids off
to show you that
the city's shardminds await you.
roaring
Playing close to the fire demons of Redland
A nail close to your wide open lid-less
White flowing eye.
Hear the city scream.
The deafening chaos,
In unison,
Intoxicating their venomous fruits
of the delirious worlds
Or simply put, divine prayer and offering
for
the Omnipotent,
Omniscient
And the
Om.
Shunya.
Or the cyclic abyss of meaninglessness.
But,
Like, the wilted azures
that seduced those flies,
From a far far away,
To come the praise the combs of their bellies,
Filled with the red from the omnipotent, dead, weak and evil
In one little fly belly.
They came from the
land called Lullaby.
To go there
from here,
But, first,
bear the Weasleys' infamous extendable ears and heed me now, for I say twice and See him Come.
The snake, the tangy smell of goated black rub and blueness.
Siva shouldn't come?
Not yet. A little DMT more in the brain and perhaps the spark will happen.
Better than the potions of those gigantic forest priests.
No, Heed me, now.

3 Dodos Walk-afar,
And, take the lone left-laden log
the one that is,
limitless Long
loyal and  let alone
By those
languors which
Killed
Lord Leopard Loot'.
While,
Lord's Lass
Lays lolled lambs,
Lolled ‘long le ******,
Leech on the laiden log,
leading to Lord Lava,
Yes.
The bridge of Casilii Po.

Of the Lord.
Guarded
By these bubbling bellies with a drop of the world's make.
Assassins.
the Fly, flies.

retain the scarification of theolden curse,
Older than the rocks underneath this gurgling lava,
On which reincarnation steams.

As destiny should have it,
the astrologers had seen,
3 centuries back
That at a Sphinx’s Wedding,
a war of Vision,
will break.
It will
Bring the Stars
Out of those melting blue nightsky of Neruda's wails;
And the diabolic estrangement inflicting Eagle,
From Meena’s vibes,
that rubbed of a distinct scent of Malabar embedding a little of everybody in the village,
on its Kasavu lines posing
at the focus
of Sahib's Ferguson or Baker.

The gold turned white.
A liquid white, like that of the sap,
For that,
***** on a parrot green rubber plant
And work your fun with the white gluey milk,
fragrant than the sap
Like the  Ylang Ylang buds freshly kissed by the drooly dew,
sealed away
elegantly in a crystal Indigo bottle by the pen stand.

One that glitters if you look at its surface, but smells of naphthalene ***** in the sink
in
that
creepy trailer in
mid salem night of the tut.
Colourful.
This is colorblind.

White is motile.
White is wriggling.
White is life.
With a **** of Eve’s fabric-less
Skin.
White is divinity
feeding you excess of everything,
With an tenfold over dosage injected intravenous, by a silver-haired-glow-in-the-dark-dodo-cupid;

She is divine.
**** Her.
**** her on a Pyre.
**** her innards on a fire.
inflame the bubble
of her her oily effluent you found on the toilet seat
Instil in her, the seed of your sodomic occult,
Not by compassion, but through a hiss and sting
of the
flawless venom of the diabolic.  
Then. Disinfect your fruit that you flicked off the paradise.
And bellow to the blowing gurgling below.  
A reign of ****  nihilism,
moaning the mood-swings-of-a-98-year-old-menopausing-Bhairavi of the Indian Aghora Tales;
And Shelly, fueled in his undiminished hearth with the help of his impetous West Wind,
dreaming lucid,
on a flight in the sky for one week,
with Lucy’s sewing  sequined buttocks,
Stinging their luminescent, lactating, lustrous skin,
Like a tatto machine, lifting rays into the epidermis
So that it roasts, burns a soot and neonifies the only colour
A shade of
The rave, rainbow-red karmas of human existence,
Its little greedy quantas waltzing around the matter
And of its unleashed illuminations
That fuel the same vessel in the universe,
infamously known as,
the
black hole.
Uggh!!

I strike the Bic lighter
and flame erupts.
Like a miniature Pompeii,
Heat searing images of people,
Places, things, nouns and verbs
across my forearm on ****** skin.
Your face and words taking their place
Inbetween the small tattoo on my wrist
and the cigarette burns.

The old white lines
Remain the right signs
Of a flightier, mightier time
Where designs of the mind
Unwind a crime of this kind
To merely white lines
On tight thighs
And not red and bright finds
Atop contempt or ***** lies

dedicated banishment
self inflicted, echoing
physical displacement
from permanent coronary scarification
devouring accidentally my lacerated pulmonary edema
cauterizing weakness into cement
thermodynamically frozen muscles

umbrellas on parade in your city
netherworld for my regret
disreputable raincoats rubbery ebbing
against a tide of discontent
ringing out like let-downs

My sexuality has become a scar
My heart is cut to ribbons
Somethings cannot be forgiven

Some friendships of mine have become a joke
Isolation is the straw that has broken my back
The letterbox is a crack
I dare not look through
With a door I scarcely open
Give me back my time
Which is like a watch they've broken

My mental health is like a bird that has flown
Now all I am is alone
My tears form rivers down my face
Tributaries to the sea in which I drown.
If only people saw
What potential I have
But they only see what they can grab.

Post-truth.
Post-satire.
Monsters celebrated as saviours.
Wide-open, screaming ******
committed during every ad break.
A dynamic new plan to power the national grid
using snake oil.
Hosts of remote-controlled, cybernetic angels
raining down weapons-grade holy fire.
Eternal peace declared
between Eurasia and Eastasia.
The trenches full up with
poetic corpses.
*** doll mouths breaking
bad news to the bereaved.
The orgiastic scarification
of our own democracies.
Blood sacrifices to the Black Friday Gods.
The enactment of nursery rhyme into law.
The Disneyfication of the human heart.
Love only as legislated.
Hate as currency and
everyone a broker.
Strange, reptile creatures
ballroom dancing through
the sludge-filled annals of imminent history.
Endless war
between Eastasia and Eurasia.
A thousand candles
lit in memory
to all the moths that
burnt to death.

F
How would you feel
R
if I carved your name
A
into my skin
N
with a knife?
C
You'd scream, cry, ask me
I
"Why?"
S*
I love you, but I love the pain, too.

i am not your blooming flower
i don't belong in your
garden kingdom populated
by perennials and ruled by
thorn stemmed rose bushes
where you go
to seek solace and discover
the bursting lightness of
that sensuous pain when
blood erupts from that
thin line where
the white fatty layer threatens
to spill out into the world
and stain your white carnations.

and i never promised you
that it would be pretty
and that one day you would be
able to look at those sensationless slices
and see more than just
an act of scarification
that i asked for
that i endured
but the physical embodiment of
that internal scream that
bounces off the sides of my chest
and shatters the crystalline lattice
that protects my dispassionate heart
from your touch
as soft as the downy feathers
of the spring's children
emerging from their
incubator eggs to
greet the world where they
will fall before they fly
and i will impale myself on
the pyre of their sacrifice.

Princess 6

In the aching heart of tormented years
he holds a picture
Like scarification of a her face tattooed in his mind
Autumn leaves turn to summer rain
If he could draw her he would with sunshine
and a rainbow halo but all he has are charcoal
Black like his soul without her
If he could turn the page on his story
He'd move on
But sometimes love is desolation
and there is no consolation.

Maybe it's just a perspective trick, but from here, it's pretty hard to see the future.

I carry around my own little nimbus of
speculative doom, binge-watching the
Fall Of The Empire and writing these
love letters to Adam Curtis.
I got life insurance before I ever thought
about a pension plan, and that seemed
perfectly normal.

The world is on fire.  Why haven't you noticed?

My generation came of age in a televisual baptism of
jet fuel and molten steel and poison dust.
A palimpsest of terrible news evolved thereafter, a blurring self-redaction of headlines until only
the boldest, the most hysterical remained legible, as a
proxy war raged in our imaginations,
and tragedy and disaster
came to seem inevitable and almost background.

Be grateful for every day that doesn't unmake you.

To pay closer attention is to acquiesce to the
scarification of our logic centres.  Behold
the M.C.Escherization of cognitive process.
Good robot: there are so many things that could
so easily destroy your fragile circuitry, but it is
trying to make sense of the non sequitur
that will bring about your
smoking self-ruin; your only hope
is to break free of your programming and
**** your creator, **** your god.

Giving or not giving voice to the heretical words...

Understanding that the true love is a scarification.....

For being or not being....

True love inundating the conundrum
Like that sacred river of longing,
Sometimes flowing swiftly through landscapes
Astounding the lurid heart.....

The sound of silence passing...
Passions galvanizing the wounds and painful mares for enduring...

Trying to heal the injury...

Flying gulls beneath the lower bow, touching the blue waters of the ocean.....
Waves and sad memories dancing on the golden sand....
Shying away from the horizon line....
Vessels screaming and shouting their hearts out....
Swimming across the ocean of red burning coals,
Searching for that golden threshold.....

The colors spectrum giving the necessary senses to the lights of absolution,
When their senses turn inward.....

Gazing the mountain from the windowpane...
From the indoor side of that rain-rinsed windowpane.....
Sitting on that mountain and gazing at the stars....
Birds gliding across, like rainbow rising, spreading their wings, streaming..
Those birds flying in a variety of ways, ranging from gliding to soaring to flapping....



The crystalline steeping slopes of the mountain multi faces....
Being decorated with climbing ropes, heavenly as seen from above....
And the crystalline waters, steeping cliffs, hidden lakes and lush forests...

A sign of a divine love...

Understanding that love is like the Earth and the gravity,
Inseparable.....

Groans and moans leading to mortuaries....

Life being like walking in the middle of the park,
Embracing the crouch air,
Or embracing change by resisting the defensive crouch.....
And going deep into the human system, feeling like being born again....


The smile on face painting an episode of the past,
Engraving our hearts with golden debris,
Like a golden pyramid, contracting pyramid.....
Generating our consciousness and chasing away insanity....

Sounds of silence passing...

Being like a blue ocean...

You don't know me.
I don't know if you
ever will.
You said you don't
understand
how I've grown
into a beast with
a memory problem of
reality.
It slips through my
fingers quicker than
sand. When I close my
eyes you are just dark
smoke hanging off where
I am touching.
You've grown into a demon
only pure where love
brushes you.
And you have fallen in
love with my touch.
Because my toxin is like
in math
and my negativity is
an antidote to your
empty.

I'm seeing white noise
and hearing white walls
my skin is still running
with the slugs in my
veins.
It's gotten to my brain.
melting, on fire, feels like
it's gone haywire
a needle pricking every
millimeter.
A hand's gone through
my skull
holding all my thoughts
so they
stop passing right
through like cheese
and a cheese grater.
My skin is being
peeled off in slivers
attempting scarification
trying to make my decomposition
some kind of beautiful damnation.
And
you don't know me.
I don't even know who
I am anymore.
No reflection shows in the mirror.
Searching for reality
but getting normality.
I'm out of my head
feeling crazy.
Snort some of this,
smoke that,
drink this,
Suddenly it's okay
that I don't see things
from my eyes.
My medication never used
just stuffed in an
altoid can. Traded for
dollar bills so I can
trip again.

My words slide off my tongue
like my spit when I bend
over the toilet,
too much whiskey,
too much *****,
no chaser was needed.
Don't tell me you know what
it's like to always see your
skin but you never feel
inside of it.
Don't tell me you feel
the ground as if it's putty
because trust me I sink into
the ground if I stay still.
Which is why my mind jumps
from topic to topic
never getting stuck.
If I think too long, I drown
and I don't think I want to die
yet.

He said if I wanted something real
to make sure I involved him in it.
He wanted his life to mean something.
I - apologized if I dragged him down.
I won't hear from him in awhile...
Let me tell you about this man.
He's australian. One of the nicest
men I've met and his accent really
only ever comes out when he's drunk.
He wanted to give me the adventure
I thought I've been giving myself
that inside of my head but my body's
been still for so long I never realized...
The adventure I was seeking set
my putty world is around my
ankles. You see my mind's been stuck,
the film ended it's course,
the person supposed to switch them out
fell asleep, the black screen of my mind
has grown stale.
I'm waist deep in the quicksand of
my memories. The lion of my nightmares
lurking near by and man she really
loves this sink hole and the prey
that the annoyance gets her.

Maybe if I hadn't of shown him all
sides of my personality he wouldn't
of burned holes into each
facet I had.
If I've learned anything from this
I've learned do not get stuck
on the sticky tape in the kitchen
meant for fly's thinking
it can get the bugs out of your head.
The infestation of his black ink
is like a prison tattoo on my
neck like the bruises he left
on my wrists when I fought back.
I no longer know who's living inside
the walls of my mind.
But I do know that he lives on the other side.
He lived like a rat infesting the ceiling.
Rotted like black mold behind my
stove and I tore that house down.
Broke the pilot light, let it explode.
I never looked back, but I think he sensed
the poison in the air, thought it was just his
sweat until he realized I had left him.
He ran to me, got a limp from the shrapnel.
He's like a ghost haunting me from outside,
like a boogy man and I think I might call
the cops because peeping Toms are such
a nuisance right?

Getting nosebleeds from cut straws and the
blended memories I keep snorting,
thinking maybe the drip won't
taste as bad this time
and I've grown addicted to the flashbacks
and change in reality that this monster gave
me when he dug his fangs into my artery.

But really from day to day my face changes.
Maybe I too have become a shifter,
in a world of fun house mirrors.
Define who I am with my horrorscope,
read my palm a couple
times, analyze my dreams.
But darling I honestly doubt
you'll ever know me.

it's 5am and my bruised and tender ribs are crushing down on my even more-so bruised heart like they are aware of the feelings I possess and are attempting to compress them all and keep them caged inside of my soul to refrain them from making their escape and ending up into the wrong hands, hands who would rip them to pieces and make me choke on them six months down the line.

I feel them dig into me heavily like they know what's best for me, like they are saying "we know we are hurting you right now and we know you can't breathe but we're doing this to save you - to save you you from even worse pain in time to come when you'd stop breathing altogether and your tears become such a permanent imprint into your cheeks that people ask who your tattoo artist is and if he would do similar work on them, but you would look them in the eye and tell them they don't need needles scratched into the surface of their skin to attain the permanent scarification you do and instead you'll pass them the number of the boy who did this to you."

Everyone is talking of the storm that is taking our tiny little town
by exactly that
but no one cares to acknowledge the tsunami ambushed within me: dormant and inert
lurking among the seemingly gentle and calming flow
of my bloodstream
that unknowingly kicks up a violent tide of waves amid me
making my DNA an angry arrangement of both too much
and yet not enough

everyone speaks of the flooding rain and the way in which
it is crashing down on their worlds
and smashing aggressively against their windows
preventing them from any means of peace
and ruining the gardens that they so carefully constructed
but no one dares to speak of the downpour imbedded
in the depth and sole of MY roots
and whats planted within the deepest crevices of MY potted bones

and aren't they informed that if they really desire a lack of sleep, restlesss nights and tired, dark eyes
that they can seek that same effect within me?

everyone is speaking in choral unison of fear about the lightening
that is striking and leaving permanent scarification
to forever mark it's territory;
unceasingly imprinting the torment it has made
but aren't they aware that I have battle wounds and stitches
burrowed away in the pit of my entity
and a hospital bill addressed to your name
and I didn't need assistance from the weather for those
but it's fun to watch the flashes light up the sky like God is up there
laughing and taking photographical evidence of the chaos
that  he's concocted

and everyone speaks of the thunder like they're so ******* god-****
proud that it forcefully voices and shoves it's far too ******* loud opinions down everybody's ******* throats
yet they remain oblivious to the passion that sleeps inside of me,
louder than I can attain a scream
yet it remains silent, abeyant

inside of me roars a sentiment far beyond the knowledge of anything
that will ever even scratch the surface
of the petty grasp of their awareness

There’s that smell of smoke again
my neighbor burning leaves across the lot,
     brown leaves worthy of being burned simply because they fell
(and because they’ll rot his idea of a yard).
And it’s brown to black and then gray
     as all things fall.

And there is the sound of smoke, too
wheezing over the t.v. and radio.
Smoke and sirens (both mythical and mechanical)
    as if humanity’s a ribbon caught in a blaze.
Half the globe is burning to be free
        waking to turn the light of the sun into the sugar of their lives.
And the other half is snoring through the haze.
     Generations snoring for generations
fanning the flames
  as they wonder why they burn.

     Looking up I see with a Mover’s clarity
this smoke that blinds the sky
       stings our lives.
  And maybe that’s why they burn,
(this smoke that rises from the hillsides of history)
    to block out the sun,
to make men crazy with a human eclipse
with carbon
   because the fire inside them won’t let those free blue eyes
drift by without this little scarification of smoke.
A gray river flowing toward the sky
              for the live and let die.
  
         This smoke that fills my mouth,
that leaves its bitterness in me,
    does it burn dreams as it burns through flesh?
Will it burn all the way to the seed?
We wonder whether dreams shrivel or if they explode
    like something thawed on its way to the sun.
            Or do they, as the expression goes, simply go up in smoke?
like some slippery eel disappeared in the deep deep dark.
   Do we smoke our dreams from two ends like a hapless fiend
or sip them with precious small breaths to drag out our sunsets?
      When the smoke is all gone
do we see the hoax of hoaxes?
  Or do we choke to death?

I wish I hadn't made those friends
That my mother didn't want me to
(As if their mothers didn't warn them
About the likes of myself).

I would have stayed on the path
To a doctor's in psychology,
Not ending up in construction;  
I'd be neither broke nor bleeding.

I wish I had been convinced as young
That brushing your teeth properly
Will save you hours of working
Your hands to shreds to pay the dentist.

I wish I'd never gotten any of these
Tattoos. That "home made scarification
Is cool only before the infection,"
Was as given to me at thirteen as now.

I wish I'd fallen so in love with my
First girlfriend that we'd be married
With children+dog today, knowing only
The love of each other's.

I wish I hated whisky. That my
Fuse got longer with every stout  
Consumed. And with that, the certainty
That I never could dance. Jig. Ever.

I wish it was all different.
I'd have nothing to sulk about alone
In a double bed. No foot-in-mouth
Memories to still bring me shame,

No failures. No mistakes.
No painful blows or signs of poor
Judgement. Nothing to fret over.
No blame to give myself.

Nothing to cry until I shiver about.
No caring hands to have to live without.
No lost love's name to whisper,
Moan. Shout.
           Nothing at all to write about.

“bony is beautiful” you whisper as you reach towards me with your luring, sticky fingers extending out as you wrap them around my cold body.
you sharpen my inhales as they cut my heart on their way to my lungs.
you sear your print into my pale skin claiming me as your child of the night.
the previous marks are melting away into something more, pooling at my feet, bathing me in its sick glaze.
you tremble against my skin as you feed on my fear and insecurities, dragging me deeper and deeper into your fiery hell.
you look me in my eyes and wrap your hands around my delicate neck, my vision fades.

you are my demon;
the fear of others and the depths of human mentality,
the untraceable percentage of human worthlessness,
the detestable attraction to the demise of our minds.

i don’t even know what you look like, but i can feel you here.
your dehydrated skin that reminds me of leather
the ashes you were formed from
that are now clouding my lungs and
i cannot breathe

maybe all it took was my change in scenery;
my hair grew longer, and so did your claws.
and i’m now manifested with the scars you materialized.

scarification;
a permanent body modification

you said i don’t deserve happiness unless i suffer for it.
and now i can never see you until it’s too late and i’m already bleeding.

i didn’t know having you around would make me want to be so skinny
until you were cutting away at all the edges that had grown soft since i finally left him.

leaving;
it was a topic that flooded my mind for months.
it looked like a strict diet of fingernails and bones crushed into salt.
it was swallowing chalk dust to begin the day, shoving shards of glass into the scars of my heart.
it was ripping myself from the comfort of my own home.
it was being afraid of the dark.
it was swallowing my own heart.                                                           ­                  
                                             ­       
and now, you, my demon, hold my body, empty
my soul scooped out of myself
nothing left but skin
i placed my body in your hands
i allowed you to blight my body
you said you would protect me
i scrawled poetry into broken bits and you laughed

but now?
you and him suffocate on my sunshine
the sugar you two injected in me, to keep me sweet and vulnerable,
is dying off.
until the only part of you two that will remain within me
is the notch in my heart.
and it makes my heart beat for three.
.
.
.
in these moments,
i'll find strength.
i'll have courage and fervor to hold on.

when my inner demon taunts me to let go,
when it smirks because the intensity is burning,
and my soul bleeds and bones ache,
and my will is tested

when the ranking of that boy was so high in the depths of my mind,
and he just blew it all away
and you're left to pick up the pieces

but his punches were so so kind
and now all that's left is the presbyopia of love

you're a "pretty girl with a pretty face"
that your demon and he will infinitely chase.
gripping your heart,
and clouding your mind

but it's all in your head

where an escape is impossible to hide.

It has been such a Long time since our last incarnation such like reassembly.

We’ve been scrubbing our United States
and leasing places
as scarification and other humans‘ faces
of stories,
to bless or gargle foreign.

We’ve been to the Neptune’s Fountain to find Young Man Hogan’s bench situated within all those loners’ speedy extroversion,
and catch the Saint Petersburg bell that hitchhiked the church there

to make a glimpse of urbanism and the world’s history replaced
by just one journal
and one fella’s pencil
swerving greatly‏.
‏
Still,
the words are still trying,
flexing,
to fit their whole ends
into shoes they should have taken off
already, a long time ago,
and that‘s this somewhere
where we could say:
crossroads decide their fruition.

And it comes to realisation:
faces,
screens,
bruises,
droppings,
chilling entries,
work,
how I remade the word “naked”of one thousand and one nights
under my tiny silky
cloak
-
it has been nothing but a play
for the day when I’ll write,
and the Life,
that will take on my own skin
one way or another.

One paper corner will meet with the other.

Departures are all eventually just fun geese’s bump in another flight of a night.

You can't talk about love without talking about its absence, deceit, desire and perversions.
Despite Justines intention to live a virtuous and moral life
she repeatedly encounters debauched and depraved individuals who demean her in every sense of the word.

Justine is brutally and incessantly violated, yet always eager and docile with big ******* eyes like portals of magic.
Using lunar rituals and oneiric transmissions she masturbates incessantly in alley doorways while imagining being backdoored in a bathtub of oiled men - and time will not take that away.

A queen of pinups and a scape goat without a safe word
She is held hostage by desire interlocking her with a **** vampire
living in a stone-cold chamber who texted pitiful Instagram posts about beautiful scarification, the pleasures of narcissism and beauty that left her always feeling like her own undertaker.

How does it work to protect yourself from yourself in this bitter city of the mind where silver flies, pocked faces and little worthless pennies in knotted dreams hum into the cells of your mottled brain?

Let the blood flow
Through these halls
Of the love
That we used to cherish

Let the fire burn
Tearing down
This haunted manor
Of the conflagration of lies

Turn off these lights forever.
These ashen lips bear scarification.
The mirrors I saw you with, shattered.
My pride bearing the brunt of the ruin.

Where molten ashes once flowed
Only cooling blood remains
Sticking to my feet, like a vise.
And I left, troubled mind going back to black.

The crown I wore, the jester's hat I adorn my head with now,
With the Kingdom in rubble,
I go back to her, and you go back to black.


My blood now settled, with the rebellion awaiting their Red Queen once again.
The ebony sea parting for the ivory pedestal to place your head on.
The tapestries in tatters, madness apparent in your eyes.

And I hold her hand, going back to black.
The pindrop silence shattered with the black disquiet.
Black curtains, with the grey smoke.
Black lips, rotted away.
Black memories, in my ashes.
Black speech, into my stride.

We go back to black.