Melting faces and ladybirds. Give me the taste of wine and let me celebrate the evening. Give me a girls hard body to grind up against. All the fucking and sucking of yesterday, I miss it more than ever. I miss those summers of doing nothing, of existing in a blur of oil paint and dreams. Don’t care for getting old. Don’t care for being like others. The banality of fitting in. Oh what a dulling shame, and oh what a dulling waste. Flesh and bone reduced to faded paper. I want to show myself real good, want to feel like a real man should. Y’know, the things that a real man does. Smoking a cigarette whilst looking over the town, I spit at the sky and laugh at the absence of god. Veins beneath thin skin, the chest of a lover ready to be possessed. To spread seed upon. Those around me have no idea, but really I’m a devil, just wanting to taste all I can. I want to taste from her mouth, want to feed upon what she is. The nature of my condition is perverse, it is stained by mental illness. Birdcages made from ribs, hanging from trees in fields of golden corn. A mouthful of wine and the scent of oranges brings me closer to the other side. The ways of her desire, singing like birds in early morning. To push yourself in, to maintain control. Mirrors replicating the contours of her hips, the lipstick she wears, printed on levitating loins. It’s a signature that never changes. Teasing and mocking, excited by whipped flesh. Bruises at my hands, the way she opens herself up, the way she covers herself only for me to take complete control. My eyes they covet, they gaze into the heart of what they see. There’s no hiding from the light, it penetrates all. In my stomach, voodoo grips me eternally. Small mouths and clenched fists, waters drifting back to the source. A ring upon teasing fingers, a red nightmare kissing sacred stones. Salt and bloodied hand prints, raised high to the angels above that sing so willingly. Upon a bed of white linen, she is a butterfly, shedding skin and spreading wings. Swooping down upon her, I run my hands along her smooth flesh, feeling the warmth of the blood that pulsates within. Kissing every inch of her, I taste the magic of what we are. Oceans and stars, swirling together in her belly. Pulsars and supernova, string theory and supersymmetry, exploding in a chain of chaotic sighs as she digs her nails into my back. The act of transformation, of dysmorphia. Fluidity and flux, pumping her with ecstasy. Several little deaths, tingling in her toes as the angels dance with abandon. In the throes of passion, sinking in quicksand and disappearing without a trace. Alive with fire and wine, crying at the night as my thumb slips into her mouth and presses upon her tongue. This is the ritual act of unbecoming, and it haunts me severely. The ghosts of intimacy, suffocating beneath the glare of her halo, all damned and fragmented, through a looking glass, darkly. Begging never to stop, to keep going until the little deaths destroy all. Like black holes in space, or the jaws of hell as her body shudders with mine. We are the dead, and we’re dying all the time.