Black met White,
And together,
They drew Red.

The philosopher's stone was forged
In a head-on collision.

White Mother.
Black Other.
Red Child of Life.

Abandoned.
Born of conflict.
Forgotten but forever remembering.

The real holy trinity is a terrible tricolour.

there was a time
alcohol ran through
her veins faster
than she could ever
run into his arms.
either way they always met
right in the middle, ready to love
each other where they were
always meant to be.

The moon lays a long horn,
of light, on the sea.

Tremoring, ecstatic,
the grey-green unicorn.

The sky floats over the wind,
a huge flower of lotus.

(O you, walking alone,
in the last house of night!)

The heart is the same size as the fist. If they are both beating do they serve the same purpose?

Her lips are so ashened that I feel the urge to lick them without seduction,
yet I kiss them and don't complain.
Her soul so dry that the rains fear her continues grounds of dramatic dryness.
Yet I continue to water her petals.
Her body so undesired that she barely looks at it. She carries each pound, from her unsatisfied lips and her ample breast to her thickened hips and woodened- brown toes, with a shrug of unacceptance.
Yet I still explore her with the interest of the lustful.
I kissed the lips of this wretched devil and grabbed Her by the backside as the knife in her tongue pierced my neck...
But I let it happen. So maybe I truly am to blame.
After all, to save a snake is a deed or valor indeed, but at the end of the day, the snake is the same animal it had always been.