All of whom are witches

Limbo blasted into their skulls. Limbo, gushing from their empty eyes then swallowed back into their thirsty mouths. Sockets of bone, crushed and glowing, showing the wonders of nothing. The core of whores, all of whom are witches. Pyramids, introverted cigarette burns a mosaic where she was birthed. Godly babies, swinging from trees, nightmares growing in swollen bellies. Sleeping, creeping. Limbo secreting from their pores. Convulsing and pulverized. Dangerous veins, intravenously fed. On drips they sway, glancing this way, always this way. Hollow ghosts. Holy and below, the levels you’ll never know. Peeling back the layers, shaving the skin. Wasting diseases and dirty water, cradling, hastening. Sullenly, tirelessly. Headaches and bellyaches. Always wanting, never satisfied. Lizards on her neck, the scent of oranges upon her tongue. Hating, debating. The grand masturbater. That is I. Falling through the clouds, the horizon a sequence of labias. Orbs and eyes, gravitating, ravaging. The devil. The living dead. Chairs on fire. Gravestones as footsteps. Sex and lust. No dignity in self disgust. Skylines the colour of wine, raindrops of acid, slipping between her breasts. Plastic hip machines. In the back of her throat. In the middle of what she is. Diagrams and dental hygiene. Teeth where they shouldn’t be teeth. The gates of hell, all shiny and grinning. All roads lead there. All roads, circling her thighs. They rise from the seas, they align themselves with the stars. The flowered up sex. How it hypnotizes, how it pulls everything in, mercilessly. It sucks in the weak, and they surrender with ease. Vampires and mineral deficiency. Sewers, cunts. Throbbing. Gobbing. All her pretty dreams, just stains on bedsheets. Fingers and toes. All her pretty dresses, to cover the horror of what lies beneath. In mines, I am alive. Lost grandfathers. In Welsh earth. They are fossils now. Rivers, the seeds of trees. Endless nature. Bacteria on toast. Peeking into the crib, peering into the past. Collapsing. Inertia. The dirge of what we are. Flashing lights, infections. Scar covered hearts, imploding romantically. Across the barren landscape of sand, there is a town where everyone goes to die. It’s older than Christ. Everything is death. The town symmetrically matches the stars like her flowered up sex does. It draws them in, it calls to them across the emptiness. Violence and penetration. Dazzling displays of human depravity. Feed on them it says. Eat death and grow strong. Eat sex and live forever. And eat they do. They devour, deliciously. Shattered bones and mirrors for a soundtrack, they fuck and burn as the world turns ever on.

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